


What Have Kings

by antonomasia09



Category: Merlin (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Fusion, Alternate Universe - Slavery, Eagle of the Ninth, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-09-02
Updated: 2013-09-02
Packaged: 2017-12-25 08:54:10
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 30,828
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/951145
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/antonomasia09/pseuds/antonomasia09
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Arthur is the king of Camelot, but his hold on power is tenuous at best due to an injury that won't properly heal. Merlin is a druid slave whose life Arthur saves on a whim. Together, they embark on a quest to reclaim the legendary sword lost by Arthur’s father, and to restore faith in the Pendragon name. Fusion with The Eagle.</p>
            </blockquote>





	What Have Kings

**Author's Note:**

> There are a number of people that I need to thank for making this story what it is. First, my wonderful artist aaweth_edain, who was nice enough to volunteer to illustrate this at the last minute. She is illustrating a total of ten fanfics this year in addition to writing one of her own, and is therefore insane, but in the best way possible. I’m incredibly grateful. Her beautiful artwork can be found here: http://aaweth-edain.livejournal.com/24494.html
> 
> I also owe undying thanks to i_canz_(kill)_dragon (aka dragonlordette on tumblr) for stepping in at the last minute to beta for me, and for calling me out on the things that needed fixing. She made this infinitely better, and I am eternally in her debt. 
> 
> Finally, thanks to the_muppet for organizing this whole thing. It was a truly monumental undertaking, and I’m so proud to have been a part of it. The whole experience has been bittersweet, knowing that this was going to be the last paperlegends and the end of the Merlin era, but at the same time, it taught me a lot about writing, and allowed me to meet a lot of talented, passionate people.
> 
> Since I can, I would also like to mention that aaweth_edain will be hosting two Big Bangs next year, one of which is Merlin-themed. The links are here: http://mythicdreams.livejournal.com/profile and here: http://final-touches.livejournal.com/profile.

Geoffrey of Monmouth practically shoved Arthur into the Great Hall to deal with the visitors.

“Be careful,” he murmured in Arthur’s ear as he marched the king to the door, then made a rather hasty retreat so as to be out of range of anything that might occur in the near future.

Arthur did his best to hide his limp as he brushed regally past his guests, taking a seat on his throne at the end of the hall. He refused to squirm, in spite of the uncomfortable angle of his bad knee.

“Sire,” Lord Richard of Tregor greeted him, bowing just slightly not as far as he ought to, in a deliberate insult.

“Lord Richard,” he answered, refusing to rise to the bait.

“Arthur,” Lady Catrina simpered as she stepped up, and he kissed her hand gingerly. “It’s been too long.”

“Indeed,” he agreed in a similar tone, privately thinking that it hadn’t been nearly long enough.

“And our son, Jonas,” she pointed to the young man. “You were both just boys the last time you met, but I always thought you could have been such good friends.” Arthur eyed the skinny, aloof young man ignoring the proceedings in favor of examining a tapestry on the wall in great detail. He remembered a cowardly child, always hiding behind his mother’s skirts. Even now, Jonas seemed content to stay in the background and let his parents do the talking.

“Jonas,” Arthur greeted him anyway, and the young nobleman bowed briefly, barely acknowledging him, before returning to his survey of the tapestry. 

“I regret that I will be busy attending to matters of state for the foreseeable future,” Arthur continued, hoping that the excuse would be good enough to keep him from having to personally entertain the noble family, “However, in honor of your visit Camelot will be holding a tournament this afternoon, and we would be delighted if you would attend our feast tomorrow evening in celebration of Ostara.”

Lord Richard inclined his head. “Thank you for your generosity,” he said. “I take it you will not be participating in this tournament? You always used to take such pride in winning every single tournament held in Camelot. It helped greatly to cement your position as king. But then,” he broke off, eyeing Arthur’s leg, “I suppose it would not do for you to demonstrate your current weakness in front of so many of your subjects.”

Arthur gritted his teeth, refusing to rise to the bait. “You are correct; I will not be fighting today. However, I am certain that you will appreciate the talent of my loyal knights.”

“I am sure that we will. It is important to know that Camelot can still be defended.”

Arthur forced his lips into something vaguely resembling a smile. “I assure you, it can.”

“I only hope that Camelot’s standards have not lowered since the last time I attended a feast,” Lady Catrina murmered, changing the subject. “Uther had the head of a Questing Beast which he himself had slain hanging from the wall, if I recall correctly.”

Arthur fought to keep his smile in place as he caught the meaning underneath the lady’s words, and knew that, regardless of the show he put on, he would never be able to convince his visitors of his capacity as a ruler. At the same time, though, he resolved to do his best to prove to them that he was just as good a king as his father had been. “I’m certain that you will find everything to your satisfaction,” he assured him with an utterly false grin.

******************

Arthur made his way slowly, painfully, through the stadium crowd, leaning heavily on his crutch. He could feel Gaius hovering behind him, ready to catch him if his knee gave out. No matter how much he kept his head down and tried to ignore it, he could also hear the murmuring of the spectators, their insensitive whispers, and felt their stares like fiery brands on his back.

It had been months now since the druid attack led by his own uncle that left him crippled, his left leg one throbbing mass of unrelenting pain. Months since he was forced to relinquish control of his army to his highest-ranking knights. Since he’d been reduced to nothing more than a puppet king, the laughingstock of his own people, beholden to the whims of the council—in particular, their representative, Geoffrey of Monmouth. 

He settled into his seat with a sigh of relief, aided by Gaius, who then turned to help Geoffrey into the chair to Arthur’s left in the place of honour. Lord Richard and Lady Catrina were already seated on Arthur’s other side, looking unimpressed with the spectacle taking place below.

Gaius bowed and retreated to the far end of the stadium in case he was needed by either his masters or the combatants. Down in the arena, Sir Leon and Sir Pellinore were locked in furious battle, each swinging viciously at the other. Both were glistening with sweat, and breathing heavily.

Arthur cheered as Leon disarmed Pellinore with a clever twist, bringing his own sword up to point at the other knight’s throat. Pellinore yielded gracefully, shaking Leon’s hand before exiting the field. Leon bowed to the politely-clapping crowd and to Arthur, then followed. Arthur smiled. Even if he could no longer participate in such competitions, it still brought him pleasure to admire the skill of the men that he had trained.

A pompous-looking man stepped into the arena gesturing dramatically. “And now, a special treat! For your entertainment, a fight to the death!” A loud cheer from the stands accompanied his announcement.

Arthur’s smile faded as he turned to Geoffrey, horrified. “What’s going on?” he demanded. “I thought this was just a tournament of skill between the knights!”

“It’s nothing to worry about, Arthur,” Geoffrey huffed. “People just want to see a show- something more exciting than knights smacking one another with swords. Especially since their king can’t demonstrate his talents for them.”

“No, don’t you dare make this my fault.” Arthur was furious. “I’m going to put a stop to this right now.” He gripped the armrests of his seat and tried to lever himself upright, intending to call out for the games to be halted, but was halted by Geoffrey’s heavy hand on his arm, holding him back.

“Leave it alone,” Geoffrey ordered. “This isn’t something worth fighting over.”

“No, you’re wrong. This is unacceptable.”

“You can’t stop it,” Geoffrey warned. “The crowd is out for blood, and they won’t calm down just because you ask them to.” He paused and then added, “And besides, you don’t want to do anything to spoil Lord Richard’s and Lady Catrina’s entertainment, do you?”

Arthur fell back into his seat. “No,” he answered, defeated. While they were present, he couldn’t do anything that would let them know just how badly he was compromised; failing to control the crowd could prove disastrous for him. “But I will be having words with the Council about this,” he threatened.

The western gate swinging open with a hair-raising screech interrupted anything else he might have said. A heavyset man in crude leather armor stepped out with a roar, brandishing his already bloody sword and shield. The crowd erupted with cheers, but Arthur just felt sickened.

Then, the eastern gate opened. A slender, dark-haired boy was shoved into the arena, carrying only a wooden sword, the sort that young squires trained with. He was barefoot, clad in an ill-fitting pair of trousers and nothing else. A triskelion tattoo was visible on his upper left arm, clearly marking him for what he was. A druid. Not a sorcerer, though; he would have been killed rather than captured had the knights even suspected him of using magic.

Arthur’s knee throbbed at the thought of druids, but he ignored it, focusing instead on the startling defiance in the eyes of the boy in the arena, who was slowly approaching the larger man. 

The mercenary grinned at the druid, circling him slowly, menacing. The boy did not engage him, though. Instead, he looked up at the hostile crowd, searching each face for any hint of mercy or compassion, but finding none. Arthur ducked his head to hide his own before the boy could reach it, ashamed.

When the mercenary stopped circling and approached the slave, the boy did not attack, even as his opponent’s sword came to rest in the middle of his chest. Instead, he threw aside his own sword, glaring straight into the mercenary’s face.

The big man stopped, confused, and looked to the crowd for guidance. Taking heed of their wild shouts of “fight!” and “Kill him!” he swung his shield viciously at the boy’s face, knocking him to the damp ground. Panting, bleeding from his mouth, the boy stood up and turned around again to face the other man, but made no move to defend himself.

This time, the mercenary feinted, swinging his blade but stopping it before it could strike the boy, who still did not move. He hissed something unintelligible and gestured to the wooden sword lying nearby, but the boy shook his head and did not go to pick it up. The bigger man growled in frustration and smacked the boy in the back of the head with the hilt of his sword, causing him to stagger a bit but not fall.

He tried bringing his sword to the boy’s neck threateningly, to no avail; even pressing harder to cause a trickle of blood to run down the boy’s throat provoked no reaction. The mercenary withdrew his sword again, then punched the boy in the face with the hilt. This time, the boy fell backwards and did not get up again. He lay helpless on the ground, breathing heavily, and refused to cower away as the mercenary shoved the sword-point against his chest.

The victor raised his sword high in preparation for the final blow, the crowd going wild, cheering him on. As he was about to bring the blade down, though, Arthur could take no more. He surprised himself, jumping up from his seat heedless of the agonizing wrench to his knee, and shouted “NO! STOP!”

Instantly, there was silence. Arthur may have been a cripple, an object of ridicule, but Geoffrey was wrong; he was still the king, and his subjects had to obey. The mercenary changed direction mid-swing, burying his sword into the packed earth just beside the slave’s head. The boy flinched away involuntarily, his eyes meeting Arthur’s and holding them. Arthur stared back at him for an interminable moment, then, at Geoffrey’s signal, two knights appeared to help Arthur back to the castle, and their gazes broke. 

“What are you doing, Arthur?” Geoffrey asked him as he stood carefully. Arthur didn’t have an answer, though, unsure himself of why he had been inspired to save the boy’s life, so he pretended that he had not heard the question. As he slowly made his way back through the stands, Arthur looked back to find the boy being roughly escorted out of the arena through the gate he’d entered from.

******************

Arthur’s knee avenged itself immediately for his actions in the arena, throbbing as badly as it had in the days just after the sword had shattered inside of it. Doing his best to ignore it since he needed to ready himself for a meeting, Arthur bent over painfully, trying in vain to reach down far enough to pull on his boots. Frustrated, he called out for a servant and for Gaius, then sat back wearily to wait.

Soon enough, he heard footsteps, and straightened, making an effort to look as though he was merely too lazy to put his boots on himself. He was the king of Camelot; it was his right to have a servant dress him. It wasn’t because he was his injury had rendered him incapable of performing simple tasks.

It was not a servant or the physician that entered the room, however, but Geoffrey. Arthur stiffened, expecting a rebuke for what had transpired at the tournament, but instead Geoffrey merely stated calmly, “You’re monopolizing Gaius’ time too much. You overstep your limits every day, and end up hurting yourself. So I’ve bought you a slave.”

Arthur jerked in shock. Geoffrey was right about hurting himself, however little he wanted to admit it, but… “I don’t need a slave,” he said, his voice rising a little.

Geoffrey eyed the boots that were half-way on. “You need someone to help you full-time.”

“I should have been consulted!” Arthur shouted, knowing that he couldn’t win the other argument, but Geoffrey just shrugged.

“Well, you weren’t,” he said, then turned and called back into the hallway, “Slave!”

There was a pause, and then Arthur stared in shock as the druid boy from the tournament shuffled slowly into the room. His trousers still had muddy stains from the arena, but now he was wearing boots, as well as a blue tunic and brown jacket. A red neckerchief hid the small wound on his neck where the mercenary’s sword had pierced his skin. He refused to look at Arthur, staring straight ahead instead.

“I believe you’re familiar with this young man. His name’s Merlin,” Geoffrey informed Arthur, indicating the slave behind him. Neither acknowledged him. “Well, I have duties to attend to. I’ll leave the two of you to get acquainted.” As he left, he paused and leaned in to whisper in Arthur’s ear, “You wanted him alive. Now do something with him.”

Arthur forced himself not to react, although he did blink when Geoffrey slammed the door behind himself. 

Once he was gone, there was a silence that lasted for far longer than was comfortable. Finally, Arthur snapped, “I have no use for you.”

“I had no wish to be bought,” Merlin retorted angrily, looking at Arthur for the first time. His gaze was just as challenging and defiant as it had been in the arena. 

“You should have run,” Arthur said, standing up awkwardly and limping to the window in his bare feet to stare out at the courtyard. It was busy; today was a market day, and many people from the outlying villages had come to watch the tournament. Perfect for slipping away from a new master and losing yourself in the crowd. “Geoffrey’s an old man. He wouldn’t have tried to stop you.”

Merlin glanced longingly at the window, and Arthur knew that he was very well aware of that. He grimaced. “You saved my life,” Merlin answered simply. “I have a debt of honor to you now.”

“Against your wish,” Arthur reminded him.

“I was at your mercy. My wish was irrelevant,” Merlin replied bitterly.

Arthur frowned, but didn’t contradict him. 

“There’s more than that, though,” Merlin continued, strangely reluctant. “A prophecy. I am bound to you, Arthur Pendragon, destined to help you unite the lands to create a kingdom greater than Camelot. We are two sides of the same coin.” 

Arthur snorted. “Prophecy?” he sneered, and gestured angrily at his injured leg. “I have no great destiny. I can’t even rule my own kingdom let alone conquer others. What can you, a slave, a magic-less druid do to change that?”

“I don’t know,” Merlin answered calmly, though Arthur thought he saw something flicker in the boy’s eyes when he’d accused him of lacking magic. “But I believe that it is your fate to be the greatest king Camelot has ever known.”

With those words, Merlin pulled an amulet out of his tunic. There were runes carved on it, and above them a fierce dragon in flight. Even without any powers of his own, Arthur could sense that it contained powerful magic. He held still, unsure what Merlin was doing, wondering if he should be bracing for an attack. How had he even managed to get hold of such a powerful artifact in the first place, let alone been allowed to keep it? 

The slave held his eyes for a long moment, and then tossed the charm at Arthur’s feet.

“I am a druid of the tribe of Taliesin, and we do not break our word. The magic in this amulet seals my bond. It is the only thing of any power that I possess.” He paused again, then before Arthur could think of anything to say, he blurted, “I hate everything you stand for. Everything you are, that Camelot is. But you saved my life. And I am destined to serve you.”

Arthur stared at Merlin. He did not believe in destiny. Each man had the power to make his own fate, and there was no cosmic force that could steer him where he did not want to go. Certainly there was no chance of him becoming a fabled leader, not with his tenuous grip on power. But he recognized the effort that Merlin was making, and he would not deny the boy this comfort. There was nothing else to do but tuck the charm into his pocket and nod his acceptance.

******************

Arthur dreamt that night of red and gold. A blood-red banner, the golden dragon symbolizing the Pendragon’s reign emblazoned on it, blew madly in a strong wind. A gleaming golden sword blazed in the sunlight beside it. Excalibur, forged in a dragon’s breath, able to destroy any enemy with just one blow, and capable of being wielded only by the rightful king of Camelot. His father, mounted on his horse in full armor, held the weapon firmly. Strongly.

Arthur himself, not more than ten years old, gazed up at Uther, eyes full of tears. “Father,” he implored, but Uther merely reached out a hand and patted him on the head, then wheeled his horse around and galloped off down the road.

******************

“You really are spectacularly bad at this, aren’t you, Merlin?” Arthur mused as Merlin tried and failed for the third time to pull a chainmail shirt over Arthur’s head.

“When was the last time you tried to help someone get dressed?” Merlin grumbled back, his voice sounding muffled to Arthur from within the shirt. Merlin tugged hard on the bottom, causing Arthur to overbalance with a curse. He caught Arthur awkwardly when he began to fall, and shoved him back to his feet with difficulty. “Besides. There’s all this stupid heavy armour. I don’t know how you can possibly move in it.”

“I’ve been trained since childhood to bear the weight of armour. It is a burden that I carry with pride,” he told Merlin smugly, although the effect was probably ruined by the fact that he was doubled over and tangled in his own mail.

“Well, I’m sorry that I had better things to do than go around in back-breaking clothing swinging swords as a child.” Arthur wasn’t sure whether to be amused or vaguely offended by that statement. 

A few more jerks and the chainmail finally settled on Arthur’s shoulders. He shook his arms out, feeling the comforting weight redistribute itself on his back. “Why do you need it anyway? You’re not even fighting, you’re just doing political things in your heavily-fortified castle.”

“I’d rather be fighting. It would be much more enjoyable,” Arthur said, trying to pass it off as a joke. He did not mention how many times over the past few years an assassin’s blade had been stopped by the chainmail he wore at all times save when he was asleep now. From the considering look Merlin was giving him, it seemed that he did not need to.

Merlin started to say something else, but was interrupted by a knock at the door. Arthur shooed him over to answer it, hurriedly flattening down his hair, which was sticking out in all directions as a result of his struggles to get dressed. He squared his shoulders and straightened his back to present the illusion of confidence to whoever wanted to see him.

It was Gaius. At Arthur’s nod, Merlin opened the door wide enough to let him in, then retreated to a corner to watch what was happening. The old man bustled into the room, closing the door behind himself. “I’ll need to take a look at your knee, sire,” he prompted when Arthur made no move to lower his breeches.

Arthur hesitated. Merlin had not yet seen his wound; they had spent all of their time this morning thus far fighting with Arthur’s tunic and armour. And while he knew that it was unreasonable, he had no desire to show any more weakness than was absolutely necessary in front of this man who had faced down death so defiantly.

“Do you want me to leave?” Merlin asked quietly, but Arthur shook his head.

“No.” Merlin would know sooner or later, and it was best to get it over with as quickly as possible. He undid the laces and let his trousers drop to his ankles before sitting on the edge of his bed, trying and failing to ignore the gasp from Merlin’s corner when Gaius unwound the bandages.

Arthur’s knee was swollen and angrily red. Pus leaked out from the still-open breaks in his skin, which should have closed long ago. Gaius tutted at the sight.

“It looks worse than yesterday. You should not have jumped up the way you did.” Arthur grimaced a little, especially when he saw Merlin squirming.

“I’ve brought some more salve,” Gaius added, pulling a bottle out of his round leather medicine case. “Would you like me to apply it now, sire?”

“No, I’m fine,” Arthur dismissed him, just wanting to cover his knee back up and pretend that the past few minutes had not happened.

“As you wish, sire.” Gaius swiftly wound new bandages around the wound, then bowed and departed.

Arthur tried to bend over to pull his breeches back up, but couldn’t reach far enough. He tried again, flushing even redder, raising his head to see Merlin only a few feet away from him looking annoyingly sympathetic.

“What?” he snarled.

“You’re not fine,” Merlin said slowly. “You’ve been wincing ever since you woke up this morning.”

“So what?”

“You don’t need to be all warrior-y in front of me. I’m just a slave, it doesn’t matter what I think of you.” Merlin paused and took a closer look at Arthur. “Or maybe it does.”

Arthur turned away, uncomfortable at the way Merlin was able to read him so easily. Fortunately, Merlin didn’t try to press the matter any further.

“Let me help you,” Merlin entreated instead. “It’s what I’m here for, isn’t it? Besides,” he added more quietly. “It’s sort of my fault.”

It was the last thing that Arthur wanted. But he couldn’t pull up his trousers himself, and Merlin was right about it being his job anyway. “Go ahead,” he said.

Merlin stepped up to him and knelt down to carefully pulled Arthur’s breeches up, navigating gently around his knee so as not to jostle it accidentally. Arthur told himself firmly not to fidget, as uncomfortable as he was with Merlin’s proximity to his injury. Once he had raised them as high as they could go with Arthur still seated, Arthur snatched them out of his hands and finished pulling them on and lacing them himself.

“Thank you,” Arthur said when he was done, but he couldn’t bring himself to look at Merlin. He limped over to his desk, sat down gingerly, and picked up a piece of paper. An account of the most recent patrol, from the looks of it. He began to try to read it, but stopped when he realized that Merlin was not doing whatever servantly task he surely should have been working on, but was instead staring at Arthur.

“What?” he asked, finally looking up.

Merlin jumped a bit. “Nothing,” he said. “Just… if you don’t mind me asking, how did you hurt your knee?”

“You must be the only person in Camelot who doesn’t know the story.”

Merlin shrugged. “Well, I haven’t been here long. And I haven’t exactly been spending most of my time lately listening to stories.”

Arthur put down the report. It wasn’t as though Merlin knowing would change anything. “There had been druids living in the forest surrounding Camelot, who had managed to evade my father’s raids for years,” he began. “After he disappeared, I stopped actively hunting them, since they had always been peaceful, choosing to run and hide rather than fight whenever they could.”

Arthur paused, and his face twisted. “But the council still thought they were dangerous. My uncle Agravaine, my mother’s brother, offered to go over and negotiate a permanent peace treaty with them, so we sent him into the woods with five knights. A week later, the knights’ heads were returned to us.”

He looked up at Merlin, who was staring at him, shocked into silence. “My uncle had betrayed me. He had convinced the druids to declare war on Camelot. I still don’t know why. It may be that he wanted to reclaim the power he had once held as regent after my father died when I was just a boy. But whatever the reason, I knew we had to fight.”

“I led a hundred knights against a band of no more than fifty druids, nearly a quarter of which were children, and it was still a difficult battle. They used their magic to make their weapons even more deadly, causing arrowheads to shatter upon impact and swords to be even stronger than they should be. We managed to defeat them, and killed every single one afterwards, including my uncle. But one of them managed to hit me with a sword that froze and splintered into pieces when it struck my knee. There may have even been some sort of curse on the blade; I don’t know. But whatever it was, the wound has refused to heal properly.”

“I’m sorry,” Merlin said.

“There’s no point in dwelling on the past,” Arthur replied, turning back to his reports.

“So you really don’t like magic users, then?” Merlin pressed, seeming unwilling to let the topic go for some reason.

“A sorceress killed my mother,” Arthur gritted out. “Druids probably killed my father. They crippled me. They have attacked my kingdom several times. So no, I don’t have any particular love for them.”

“Right,” said Merlin. He sounded upset, although Arthur couldn’t guess why.

There was a long, awkward pause.

“I have some knowledge of medicinal herbs,” Merlin offered finally, breaking the silence. “I could try to make something to help you.”

“You know more about medicines than the court physician?” Arthur was skeptical.

“I didn’t say that. But maybe I am familiar with some methods that he would not have been exposed to here in Camelot. At least let me try.”

“All right,” Arthur allowed. “I suppose nothing you could do would make it worse.”

******************

“You’re late, Merlin,” Arthur admonished that evening, when Merlin burst into the room only minutes before the feast was due to start. He didn’t put much force behind his words, though, since he was actually relieved to have an excuse to spend less time in the company of the noble lords and ladies. Of course, it would reflect badly on him to arrive late to his own feast, but he reasoned that at this point, their opinions of him could hardly get any lower.

“Sorry,” Merlin apologized, not sounding remotely contrite. “But look what I’ve got.” He held out a small pungent vial triumphantly for Arthur’s inspection.

Arthur took it gingerly. “What is in this?” he asked suspiciously, but Merlin wouldn’t say.

“Just try it,” Merlin urged, so, with a sigh, Arthur obliged.

He dipped a finger gingerly into the concoction. To his surprise, the stuff was cool and nowhere near as slimy as the salves Gaius usually brought him. Arthur quickly dropped his trousers and unwrapped his knee, touching his finger lightly to the wound. The effect was immediate. The area he’d touched was numbed instantly, and he could feel his entire leg relaxing as the constant pain he’d become accustomed to receded.

“That is amazing!” he exclaimed, causing Merlin to beam with pride. “Seriously, what the hell is this stuff?”

“An old druid remedy,” Merlin shrugged off the question. “Apply it twice a day, and you should still not be walking around too much for awhile; it’ll take time to actually heal you.”

“This is brilliant,” he declared, ignoring Merlin’s advice and pacing around the room, reveling in the speed at which he could move once more. “I feel like I could go hunting again, even. God I’ve missed it.”

“Perhaps you should get through tonight’s feast first,” Merlin suggested, effectively killing Arthur’s good mood.

“Fine,” he sighed. “Tomorrow, then.”

“The medicine hasn’t healed you yet, just dulled the pain,” Merlin cautioned. “It will take time.”

“Stop being such a girl’s petticoat,” Arthur groaned. “Let me enjoy the moment.”

“My apologies, sire,” Merlin said seriously, although Arthur could see his mouth twitching upwards.

“Come on,” Arthur told him mischievously. “Let’s see if you’re any better at dressing me this time.” He laughed at the glare Merlin directed at him.

******************

In spite of his joy at his newfound mobility, the feast was every bit as much of a disaster as Arthur had feared. 

“I do so miss the roasted boar that Uther used to serve,” Lady Catrina sighed, dabbing daintily at her mouth with a cloth napkin. “He would kill the beast himself, I believe.”

“My father’s hunting prowess was certainly legendary,” Arthur agreed tersely. His strain was made worse by the tension he could feel emanating from Merlin, who was hovering behind him clutching a wine jug tightly.

“Speaking of your father, there have been rumours recently in some of the outlying villages,” Lord Richard butted in. “They say Excalibur’s been seen, held by druids somewhere in the far north.”

Arthur listened closer at this, and Geoffrey raised an eyebrow.

“Excalibur in the hands of militant druids.” Lord Richard shook his head mock-sadly. “A potent symbol of Camelot’s weakness. One has to wonder how any true defender of the realm could let that insult go.”

Arthur gritted his teeth, clenching and unclenching his fists. Only Geoffrey’s hand on his arm stopped him from leaping up and wiping the arrogance off the lord’s face.

“If this is true, surely we should act,” Arthur suggested through his gritted teeth.

“If it is true,” agreed Richard. “But it would hardly make sense to send an expeditionary force into the unknown based solely on a rumour. It would help morale a great deal if Excalibur was recovered, of course, but it would be senseless to risk thousands of lives without hard facts. You need all your men here and in good fighting shape, in case of attack.”

“Is that a threat?” Arthur asked him. “Are you aware of any such attack being imminent?”

“No, of course not,” Richard answered placatingly, holding his hands out. As much as he was obviously trying to rile Arthur up, he was a soft man who stood no chance if it actually came down to physical combat, regardless of Arthur’s impairment, and he knew it.

“What if one man went?” Jonas suggested, speaking for the first time. Arthur was stunned. He hadn’t thought the young man had been paying attention to the conversation at all, let alone closely enough to come up with a surprisingly tactical plan.

“In the Darkling Woods and the marshlands, and the harsh countries of the North crawling with druids?” Richard said skeptically. “No citizen of Camelot could survive the journey alone.”

“One man can hide where an army can’t,” Arthur pointed out, warming further to the idea upon Richard’s dismissal of it. “No one need even know he was there.”

“And who do you propose to send? No knight would be willing to sacrifice his life for such slim chances.”

Arthur lifted his chin, the answer evident in his eyes.

“Arthur,” Geoffrey began, but the king cut him off.

“I would do it,” he said firmly. “I would bring back Excalibur and restore faith in the Pendragon name.” When the entire room hushed and turned to eagerly watch the drama at Arthur’s table unfold, he realized that he’d been speaking far too loudly.

“You’re the king!” Geoffrey exclaimed quietly, griping Arthur’s arm more tightly, to the point of pain. “A prince no longer. There is no time for foolishness or silly quests. Camelot needs you here.”

“Indeed,” Lord Richard agreed with a smirk. 

“What ever would Camelot do if it lost its beloved ruler?” his wife simpered insincerely.

Arthur did not trust himself to answer their taunting with reasonable words, suspecting that if he were to speak, he would end up throwing a glove down and issuing Lord Richard a challenge. He rose furiously and stalked out of the room. Geoffrey shuffled after him as quickly as he could, Merlin following more slowly behind. When Arthur paused halfway down the hall, shoulders tense, and turned around to confront Geoffrey, Merlin hid himself in the shadows to watch, crossing his arms protectively in front of his chest.

“Ignore them,” Geoffrey advised softly.

But Arthur couldn’t. Everything he’d been avoiding thinking about for over a year had suddenly been thrown in his face, and it left him breathless, unable to stop moving.

He paced back and forth in the hallway. “I know why Richard is here. He’s testing me and the city, trying to see how easy it would be to make a play for the throne.”

“I know, sire,” sighed Geoffrey.

“I was trained to become king from the time I was born,” continued Arthur, furious. “I learned how to swing a sword as soon as I was strong enough to hold one. My father taught me how to fight, how to rule, and for what? All I ever thought about was how one day I was going to be king, and I would make the people of Camelot proud. And now I am king, and the people are ashamed when they see me.”

“Arthur…”

Arthur ignored him. “There’s nothing that I can do here to prove my worthiness as a leader. A quest would allow me to retrieve Excalibur, and to show people that I am still strong. Still capable of fulfilling my duties.”

“You’d never survive the harsh countryside, let alone find your way to where Excalibur is being held,” warned Geoffrey.

“Then I’ll take Merlin,” Arthur declared, swirling abruptly to eye his servant, who was still half-hidden in the shadows, watching what was playing out.

“Me?” Merlin blurted out.

Geoffrey turned too, startled to see Merlin there. He turned as well to regard the servant, who flinched under his calculating gaze. “You’d entrust yourself to a slave?” Geoffrey asked, incredulous.

“Why not? He can speak the language, and I’m sure he knows his way around the forest. All druids do.”

“Arthur, I still don’t understand why this boy is so important to you, but you must remember that, while he may not be a sorcerer, he is a druid. He’ll slit your throat the moment you’re alone.” Merlin twitched at that comment and lowered his eyes, but said nothing

“He wouldn’t do that,” Arthur answered confidently.

“How do you know?”

“He gave me his word!” Merlin’s eyes shot up again, and his face was twisted in an odd expression as he stared at Arthur now.

“His word?” Geoffrey hissed. “He’s a slave. He says what he says and he does what he does because he has to. But beyond Camelot’s walls, in the forest…”

“If I’m wrong, then I’ll die,” Arthur cut him off. “And that’s how it should be. Camelot will find itself a worthier king than me. That’s what you want anyway, isn’t it?” he challenged. Privately, he bitterly acknowledged the fact that the Pendragon line had not done the kingdom any favours.

“Arthur…”

But it was no use. Arthur’s mind was made up. He would rescue Excalibur from the hands of the druids, or he would die trying. There were no other options.

******************

It took less than a day to pack everything that they would need for their journey. Merlin arranged for the kitchens to provide them with far more dried meat and dry bread than Arthur thought was truly practical, although he kept his complaints to himself when Merlin also presented him with a pocketful of sweetmeats that he’d stolen while the cook was busy overseeing the preparation of their food.

“How did you get all of this organized so quickly?” Arthur asked Merlin, who merely shrugged mysteriously.

They chose horses that were not terribly swift, but were hardy enough to carry them as well as their provisions. Arthur surprised Merlin with a warm brown cloak from his own wardrobe for the journey, since he’d discovered that Merlin owned no clothing other than that which he wore every day, which would hardly suffice in the unpredictable spring weather. 

“You do realize that you’ll need to leave your armour behind, right?” Merlin asked as he wrapped the cloak around himself.

“What? Why?”

“If we’re to have any hope at all of passing unnoticed, no one can suspect that you’re a knight of Camelot.”

“But I’ll be defenseless without it.”

“Actually, you’ll be safer if people just think we’re just poor travelers with nothing worth stealing.”

“I suppose,” Arthur said reluctantly, deferring to Merlin’s superior knowledge of the woods. He picked up his sword and began tucking it into his belt.

“You can’t take that either,” Merlin pointed out.

“I’m not going unarmed,” Arthur declared flatly.

“No, of course not. But that sword is not exactly inconspicuous.” Merlin waved a hand to indicate the jeweled pommel and intricately engraved blade.

“It’s my sword,” Arthur said. “It was made specifically for me, and I know its balance and how to handle it. I’m not going to bring some peasant’s sword for a journey like this.”

Merlin tried to argue further, but Arthur shut him up with a look. “This is non-negotiable.”

“All right,” Merlin grumbled. “But you should wrap the handle. And don’t draw it unless you absolutely have to.”

“What about you?” Arthur asked. “Do you know how to use a sword?”

“Would you give me one?” Merlin was shocked.

“It will be hard for me to protect both of us by myself, if we should need to fight,” Arthur admitted. “If I give you a sword, can I assume that you’ll be able to take care of yourself?”

Merlin nodded dumbly. “Good,” Arthur said. “Then we’ll pick one up for you from the blacksmith before we leave.”

They continued in silence for a few moments more, until Arthur gradually became aware that Merlin had stopped packing and was looking at him awkwardly, as if he was trying to say something but couldn’t quite work up the courage to speak. “What is it, Merlin?” he asked.

“I…” Merlin’s jaw worked for a moment, then he burst out, “Thank you. For what you said to Geoffrey. For trusting me.”

“You’re welcome,” Arthur answered, a bit uncomfortable with the sentimentality of the situation. Dealing with feelings had never been his forte; besides, he didn’t think that what he had done was spectacular enough to deserve thanks. He would have been a fool not to take advantage of Merlin’s abilities as a guide. The servant was still exuding uncertainty, though, so Arthur added, “I do believe that you’ll keep your word.”

“I know,” Merlin replied, finally relaxing. “And I swear to you that I will not betray that trust.”

******************

Arthur again dreamed of the golden dragon fluttering in the breeze. It disappeared into the trees, followed by knights, running for their lives. His father was there, still grasping Excalibur, although the blade was now blood-red, a shade slightly darker than the banner, and the hilt was stained black with gore.

Arthur tried to reach out to his father, to raise an arm to protect him, but couldn’t. He bellowed his frustration, even as tears leaked down his cheeks.

******************

The king and his servant set out at dawn. Arthur took a vicious pleasure in waking his guests up early to give them a formal farewell before departing, although the knowing smiles that Lord Richard and Lady Catrina gave him left him feeling rather disconcerted. He refused to unsettle himself further by believing that his nightmare was an omen of the journey to come.

As they slowly rode down the streets of Camelot, people were just starting to awaken. Arthur drank in the sights and sounds of the city, trying to impress them permanently on his memory to fortify him in the days to come.

No one paid the pair any mind until they reached the gates of the city, where two guards were standing lazily at attention. The soldiers eyed Arthur and Merlin dubiously, not recognizing them. That heartened Arthur a bit. If members of his own guard could not identify him, it was unlikely that any druids would. 

One soldier, though, was eyeing Merlin in an uncomfortably appreciative way that raised Arthur’s hackles. Caught between the two, Merlin hunched over his horse with his head down, as though trying to turn himself invisible. He was gripping his reigns so tightly that his hands were white. Arthur moved his own mount closer, positioning himself firmly between the guard and his servant, and daring the man with his eyes to say something about it.

Fortunately, the guard did not seem inclined to try pressing his luck. “What do you want?” he asked.

“Open the gate, soldier,” Arthur ordered.

The guard laughed. “I don’t think you really want to go out there, sir,” he said mockingly. “It’s dangerous beyond Camelot’s walls.” The other menacingly stepped closer to Merlin, who was visibly shaking now.

Arthur had had enough. He drew his sword, letting it gleam in the morning sun. Both guards instantly recognized the blade, their mouths falling open in shock. “Open the gate, or I’ll have you flogged,” Arthur repeated, and they scrambled to do so, suddenly anxious to obey his commands.

“May I ask where you’re going, sire?” the first guard asked, struggling to hold upright the heavy beam that normally secured the doors.

“You may not,” Arthur answered curtly, and nudged his horse forward. Merlin followed close behind, and did not relax until the gates had slammed shut behind them.

“Glad I brought my sword along now, aren’t you?” Arthur asked Merlin smugly once he heard the beam thump into place behind them. Merlin just nodded, still obviously upset. Arthur gave him a reassuring smile, unsure of what else to do, and set off down the path.

******************

They passed only a few, heavily-armed travelers on the road outside of the city. All of them eyed the pair suspiciously and visibly rested hands on their weapons; Arthur, for his part, glared back and visibly fingered his own sword, and no one ever challenged them. 

By midday, they had reached the edges of the Darkling Woods. Arthur brought his horse to a halt just at the outskirts, prompting Merlin to pause next to him. The two men stared into the forest without saying a word, steeling themselves for the true beginning of their journey. They couldn’t see much – dense undergrowth and tall trees made visibility nearly nonexistent, although Arthur would swear that he could hear a whispery rustling coming from amongst the foliage. Arthur straightened his shoulders and nudged his mount forwards. Merlin followed, alert for any signs of danger.

For another hour they rode with no incident. Arthur had just begun to relax, and was about to comment on how silly it was for Merlin to have brought his neckerchiefs on an adventure, when he caught a low humming coming from somewhere ahead. He laid a hand on his sword, ready to pull it out if necessary. Merlin drew closer to Arthur and clenched his hands.

They crept through the trees, following the noise as it grew louder and louder, until they reached its source and stopped dead.

There were three half-decayed bodies hanging upside down from the trees. In spite of the natural ravages of time and the environment, Arthur could tell that they had been badly mutilated. A frenzied swarm of flies buzzed around them deafeningly. Both men stared at the sight, unable to tear their eyes off of it, in spite of the smell of decay and rotted flesh emanating from the corpses that threatened to overwhelm them. 

“Who did this?” Arthur asked, choking down vomit.

“Saxons,” answered Merlin. He looked no better than Arthur, pale and unsteady on his mount, breathing through the material of his sleeve. “Keep your eyes open.”

Arthur nodded, still gazing at the bodies. He knew there was no chance of either of them sleeping tonight, not with those images fixed forever into his mind.

******************

They halted near dusk in a small clearing. Merlin built a fire as Arthur eased his leg, cramped from the full day’s ride, then set two rabbits they had caught to roast. Arthur was grateful for the fire’s warmth in spite of how visible it made them; it was cold in the woods in the early spring, and the cloak he had wrapped himself in was not sufficient to keep him warm. Both Merlin and Arthur were tired, yet neither could relax, not with the threat of Saxon attack hanging over them. Every time Arthur closed his eyes, he saw the corpses, as though the image was burnt into his eyelids.

And yet, having rubbed Merlin’s salve once more onto his knee, Arthur felt more at ease in some ways than he had in a long time. “You know, I never thought I’d be able to do this again,” he mused aloud.

“What?” Merlin asked

“Questing. Adventure. Once I injured my leg, I thought it was all over. I would be shut up behind Camelot’s walls for the rest of my life, doing nothing but attending council meetings and perhaps once in awhile holding audience with the people so that I could hear petitions.”

“So you’re enjoying this?” Merlin was skeptical. “The cold and the damp and the fear of an ambush from Saxons or wild animals? Or both?”

Arthur snorted. “Of course you would focus on the negatives, Merlin,” he said good-naturedly. “It’s nice here, away from the constraints of kingship. It’s free.”

Merlin made no response, although his lips tightened at the unwitting reminder that, even here beyond the edge of civilization, he was still a slave.

Arthur realized too late that he had blundered. Searching for a way to steer the conversation in a different direction, he said, “I saw your reaction to the guards this morning. Are you all right?”

Merlin blushed and hung his head. “I’m fine,” he muttered.

“You didn’t look fine,” Arthur pushed. “Tell me what’s wrong. Did you know them?”

“No, I didn’t. It’s nothing,” Merlin insisted, but Arthur kept pressing.

“Tell me,” he entreated.

“It’s just… the way the guards were looking at me… it was like when I was captured. Like I was nothing more than a bug that they would torment for fun. I don’t know, it’s stupid. I just panicked.”

“It’s not stupid,” Arthur said fiercely. “But Merlin, you have to know that I wasn’t going to let them hurt you.”

“Why not?” Merlin wanted to know. He sounded resentful. “Because I’m no use to you broken?”

“No, that’s not it,” Arthur insisted. “I wouldn’t let them do it to anyone. It’s wrong.”

“But it happens. It happens all the time. And no one does anything to stop it.”

“When we get back, things will change,” Arthur promised. “The Council will listen to me once I have Excalibur. I’ll be able to make things better.”

“Holding a sword won’t change anyone’s opinion of you,” Merlin countered. “No matter how special it is. You have to make them think differently of you on your own.”

Arthur didn’t have a response for that. They sat together in silence for a long time, watching the fire dance.

“How can a mere weapon mean so much to you?” Merlin asked abruptly.

“Excalibur is not a weapon,” Arthur corrected him. “Excalibur is Camelot. It’s a symbol of our power, handed down from father to son for generations. One blow from it can shatter the weapon of any enemy, or pierce even the toughest monster’s hide. It can even dispel magic. The king of Camelot has always wielded it in every battle he has fought. So, every time he leads his troops to victory, they can rally around Excalibur and can say,   
‘Camelot did that.’” 

Merlin made no response but to nod slightly, his lips curling in what might have been a smile or a grimace, and Arthur sighed. “I wouldn’t expect you to understand. How could you?” Merlin had no loyalty to any kingdom; he couldn’t possibly understand what it was to be devoted to a symbol of one.

Merlin slowly raised his head. “For the first twelve years of my life, I lived in a little village called Ealdor. It’s beyond Camelot’s borders, in Cenred’s kingdom; you wouldn’t have heard of it. Life wasn’t easy, but we made do. My mum raised me by herself. I never knew my father. I always thought that if he’d been there, things would have been different.”

“One winter, bandits attacked, and we were forced to flee. My mum and I were both injured, but she was hurt worse. I ran into the woods, carrying her as far as I could, until I passed out. A band of druids found us. They healed us and took us both in. Only a few could do magic—most were refugees like us—but those that could used whatever magic they could to make the tribe’s lives easier. We lived simply, peacefully. We were happy.” Merlin’s tone, wistful and melancholy up until this point, suddenly hardened.

“Then, your father decided that magic had to be eradicated everywhere, even beyond his own lands. He attacked us in the night when we were asleep and too disoriented to fight back. I watched a knight slaughter my mother in front of me, and could do nothing to stop him. I begged for him to kill me too, but the knights decided to take me back with them instead, for their own sadistic entertainment. I became a slave, passed around from cruel master to crueler one, until I finally decided that I’d had enough.” Merlin raised his eyes to Arthur’s, and delivered his final sentence like a gauntleted punch to the gut.

“Camelot also did that.”

Arthur felt sick. He knew that his father’s campaign against magic-users had been justified – a sorcerer had killed his mother; moreover, they were a danger to the kingdom because they could not be controlled. Arthur had led battles against militant druids himself, and had been lucky to escape with his life, seeing first-hand how dangerous they were. But this was brutal beyond any rationalizations he could make.

“I know that nothing I can say will make up for what you have suffered,” he offered eventually. “But, for what it’s worth, I’m sorry.”

Merlin’s lip quivered, and he nodded convulsively. They returned to watching the fire together.

“What was your mother’s name?” Arthur asked after a few minutes of reflection.

“Hunith,” Merlin whispered. It sounded difficult for him to speak her name.

“Hunith,” Arthur repeated. “When we get back, I will see to it that she is honored,” he offered.

“Thanks,” Merlin smiled tearily at him. “I appreciate that.”

Arthur smiled back. “You should get some sleep,” he suggested. “I’ll take first watch, and wake you up in a few hours.” 

Merlin thanked him, and curled up close to the heat of the fire. He kept his back to Arthur, but the king could tell by the way that Merlin’s shoulders shook that his servant cried himself to sleep. Arthur let him rest the entire night through, unable to quiet his own mind. It was the least he could do, considering all Merlin had suffered at the hands of Camelot.

******************

Another day’s riding, and they had passed through the Darkling Woods without incident. They continued on over the gently-sloping grassy plains, until they reached a plateau. Beneath them, the land abruptly dropped away into murky forest.

“The Valley of the Fallen Kings,” Merlin announced. “Which way now?”

“It’s up to you,” Arthur answered. “You know better than I do where we can find answers.”

“An entire army could disappear in the forest and leave no trace. Or they may have passed through and left entirely,” Merlin reminded him, unwilling to commit to a direction.

“We’ll head north. That’s the direction Excalibur was seen in,” Arthur decided.

Merlin spurred his horse on, which Arthur took as a sign of his agreement. “Let me do the talking,” Merlin said as they began to make their way carefully down the steep hill. “Even if they don’t recognize you as the king, you’ll never pass as anything but a foreign warrior. And if they find out who you really are, they’ll kill you. And me.”

Arthur nodded his assent. “I trust you,” he said simply. The huge smile that involuntarily spread across Merlin’s face assured Arthur that he’d made the right decision.

******************

They rode all day, stopping only briefly to rest the horses in silence, and made camp on the bank of a stream near the edge of the woods shortly before the sun went down. Arthur helped Merlin to set up their bedrolls and build a fire, partly as a gesture of solidarity, and partly because Merlin truly was hopeless at basic tasks. Afterwards, they jointly supervised the roasting of a fish that Merlin caught from the stream. Merlin raised an eyebrow at the idea that the king was any better at cooking than he was, (and probably had a point, though Arthur would never admit it), but allowed Arthur to help.

The fish turned out surprisingly well, considering its cooks, and they both sat back, contented, to eat their meal. Merlin turned to Arthur, his lips quirked in a smile, and started to say something, but his eyes caught on something behind Arthur’s back and he suddenly tensed, visually tracking whatever it was without moving a muscle. 

“Don’t look,” he ordered Arthur, who immediately froze. “There’s three Saxons behind you across the river.” Merlin set aside his bowl in a forced casual manner. “How many behind me?” he asked.

Vainly attempting to continue to not look suspicious, Arthur scanned the woods behind Merlin far less surreptitiously than he’d hoped. He saw nothing however; the forest appeared completely empty to him. “I don’t see anyone,” he answered quietly.

“They’re there,” Merlin assured him. He flicked his eyes to Arthur. “Are you ready?”

Arthur slowly brought his hand closer to the sword at his feet, and gave the barest hint of a nod when his fingers closed around it. Merlin nodded back, then the two of them leapt up, just as a spear landed where Arthur had been sitting moments before.

It was chaos. Saxons streamed out of the trees, wielding everything from spears to sharpened rocks. Arthur struck indiscriminately with his sword, feeling it tear through flesh, then spun to block a blow that would have cut him in two. He spared a glance for Merlin, who had drawn the sword they had picked out for him and was awkwardly fending off his own assailant, before returning his attention to his own battle.

He sliced and hacked for what felt like an age. Once, he heard Merlin cry out and double over in pain, leaving himself wide open to attack. Fortunately, Arthur was close enough that he could strike down the man closest to Merlin, giving his servant enough time to recover and grab a fallen sword from the hand of a corpse at his feet. But the move left Arthur vulnerable from behind. 

He felt a glancing spear-blow graze his arm, weakening it just enough that the next hit made him drop his sword. A third blow, to the head this time, sent him sprawling to the ground, staring helplessly up at a Saxon wielding an axe. Just as the man was about to bring the axe down though, he suddenly collapsed forwards, revealing a dagger in his back and Merlin behind him, his hand still outstretched from throwing the blade, and a curious expression on his face. His eyes had an odd golden glint to them, which faded so quickly that Arthur doubted seeing it in the first place.

Arthur scrambled to his feet and quickly dispatched two more warriors. When no more fighters rushed at him, he felt the slow slide of the battle haze that had enveloped his mind begin to dissipate. He looked around to find all of the Saxons dead, with the exception of one, wrestling Merlin on the muddy bank, knife in one hand. Arthur ran toward them, but Merlin’s opponent abruptly weakened and went limp. To Arthur’s dismay, instead of killing the man, Merlin let him go and fell backwards into an awkward sitting position, breathing hard. The Saxon took off running.

Arthur shouted, and threw a knife at the fleeing warrior. They couldn’t afford anyone escaping and telling others of their presence. Merlin turned to stare at him, shock and horror clouding his face, and something darker there as well, that Arthur had never seen before. Arthur ignored it; he couldn’t afford for Merlin to not have the stomach for killing if they were to survive. 

“Next time, don’t hesitate,” he ordered him severely, needing Merlin to learn his lesson. Arthur stalked over to the fallen Saxon to retrieve the knife, and faltered when he saw the reason for Merlin’s mercy: the man was, in fact, nothing more than a boy, still barely alive and sobbing with severe pain. There was no way to save him, so Arthur gently twisted the boy’s neck, then pulled the dagger out, wiping it clean on the grass. He turned back around to see Merlin on his feet glaring furiously at him. Arthur set his shoulders and strode past. There was nothing to be done now.

******************

It appeared that whatever fragile trust or friendship they may have had was now gone. The startling ease with which it had disappeared made Arthur dizzy; he’d thought—he’d hoped—that what they had had was stronger than this. Merlin spoke to Arthur now only when necessary and would not look at him, bandaging the minor wound to his arm that he’d sustained during the fight by himself using a strip from one of his ridiculous neckerchiefs. This made Arthur defensive and angry in turn, and the feelings cycled in a nauseating circle, worsening with each turn. 

They came upon their first settlement near noon the following day. Men, women, and children ducked out of brightly-colored tents with brilliant ribbons strung between them and hung from the trees, to stare at the newcomers. They all looked hostile. “Stay back,” Merlin ordered Arthur tersely, and dismounted to talk to the druids, thrusting his reigns at Arthur.

Merlin conferred with an older man for quite some time, speaking a language that Arthur was unfamiliar with. The others continued to stare at him, so he tried to look as harmless as possible while still seething at Merlin. Finally, Merlin returned and remounted his horse dispassionately. At Arthur’s expectant look, he reported, “They remember seeing an army march north, but it never returned.”

“They must know more than that,” Arthur exclaimed, suspicious from Merlin’s cold attitude that his servant was lying to him.

Merlin turned to look at the druids, then faced Arthur again. “He says no.”

“Ask him again,” Arthur ordered, but Merlin had already set off northwards.

“No,” he said. Arthur was forced to spur his horse to catch up.

******************

Arthur sat by the fire that night unable to sleep, in spite of the constant anger wearing him to exhaustion. He was aware that distraction and impairment could have devastating consequences in these dangerous woods, but he categorically refused to apologize for the perfectly justifiable killing of the druid boy. Likewise, he knew that Merlin would never admit that it was necessary.

While he was thinking about distraction and impairment… he pulled the jar of Merlin’s salve out of his pack. In just a short time it had worked a miracle; the wound had begun to close at long last. He supposed he should feel undying gratitude to Merlin for this gift, but in truth, looking at it just made him angry now. It was a reminder of Merlin’s goodness, his compassion, and it was grating on Arthur’s nerves, as foolish as that may be.

For a moment, Arthur considered throwing the jar away or smashing it to the ground, but he was rational enough to realize how stupid that would be. Still, he couldn’t bring himself to apply it today. He tucked the jar carefully back into his pack, then grimaced and tossed a stick onto the fire, watching with satisfaction as it popped noisily, causing Merlin to stir restlessly in his sleep.

******************

Once again, Arthur was left behind to skulk in the bushes while Merlin talked to yet another druid. This one was a young curly-haired man, and he seemed to be getting along obnoxiously well with Merlin.

Merlin made a comment, and they both turned to look at Arthur, the young druid with a smirk on his face. That was the final straw. Arthur surged forward, taking them by surprise. He knocked Merlin aside, ignoring his plea of “What are you doing?” and easily pinned the druid against a fallen tree trunk, with his dagger to the man’s throat.

“Enough!” he shouted. “No more games. No more lies. Ask him where the soldiers went.”

Merlin didn’t move, so Arthur screamed, “ASK HIM!” again, pressing the blade harder against the druid’s throat for emphasis.

Merlin glared at him, his jaw set, but moved closer and asked man something in their language. The man answered sneeringly, glaring at Arthur defiantly.

“He says there’s a man in a cave beyond the marshes who can tell us what we need to know,” Merlin told Arthur. Arthur nodded in satisfaction, and released the man, who spat on him, then took off into the woods.

“Did he give you a name?” Arthur asked, brushing the druid’s spit off deliberately.

“Balinor,” Merlin said.

******************

The journey through the marshes proved far more difficult than either of them had anticipated. The horses could not bear their weight on the soft ground, so they had to dismount and lead them. Merlin, who was nearly vibrating with fury, was in front; Arthur stayed behind and slightly to the left. Very soon, both were exhausted from wading through the mud and thick grass, and tripping over the dead branches scattered on the ground as though the entire land had been struck by one massive lightning strike.

After an hour or two of misery, Arthur decided to call for a break. He got as far as “Merlin,” before he tried to take another step and realized that he couldn’t. “Merlin!” he shouted again, panicked, trying and failing to lift his boots out of the mud. It was no use; he realized that his struggles were just making him sink deeper into the muck.

Merlin turned at the second call of his name, and stared in shock for a moment at Arthur slowly being sucked into the ground. For a long moment, Arthur was terrified that Merlin would just leave him there to disappear beneath the earth. It would be a perfect way to get rid of Arthur and gain his freedom, and all he would have to do was stand there and do nothing. “Merlin!” Arthur shouted once more, jerking Merlin out of his paralysis.

“Don’t move, Arthur!” he ordered, and cast about frantically for a branch, clearly unwilling to take a step closer for fear of being trapped himself. Arthur was now submerged to his chest, and the pressure of the mud around his body was making it difficult to breathe. One arm was trapped, but he’d managed to keep the other above the surface. 

Finally, Merlin located a suitably sturdy-looking stick and extended it out towards Arthur, who grabbed it with his free hand. Arthur heaved on it as hard as he could, with Merlin pulling on the other end, but it was not enough. Both were already exhausted, and Arthur could feel the weakness in his arms as he failed to make any progress.

“Merlin,” he begged, although he knew there was nothing more his servant could do.

Merlin took a deep breath, lowering his head, and then began pulling on the branch again. Somehow, miraculously, Arthur felt himself moving, rising agonizingly slowly out of the mud. His strength restored by hope, he managed to pull himself hand by hand along the stick.

At long last, and with one almighty tug by Merlin, Arthur came free with a loud popping sound. They both landed sprawling on the mercifully solid ground, lying gasping for air. Arthur gazed up at the cloudless blue sky, desiring nothing more than to lay there forever and never move again. But there was something important that he had to do. He turned his head to look at Merlin, who was spreadeagled on his back as well, and was trembling slightly, looking almost worse-off than Arthur.

“Thank you,” Arthur said. Merlin nodded his head a bit, not having regained enough breath yet to answer. 

Arthur wasn’t satisfied, though. “You could have left me to die, Merlin,” he said softly.

At that, Merlin rolled over to glare at him. “I made a promise,” he retorted. “I told you I would help you find Excalibur.”

“You did,” Arthur agreed. “Still. Thank you.”

“It was nothing,” Merlin said dismissively, but he still looked shaken. His mouth twisted. “Sorry I froze up,” he said. “I’ve been so angry with you, and I still haven’t forgiven you for what you did. But I thought you were going to die, and… I didn’t want that to happen.”

Arthur reached out laboriously to squeeze Merlin’s shoulder. “I’m sorry too,” he said. He couldn’t make himself regret killing the Saxon boy, but he could make a general apology, and hope that it was enough. “We’ve both been stubborn lately.” He searched for an excuse to avoid expounding on the subject further, and realized, “It’s partly… I feel so useless. I mean, this is meant to be my quest, to prove my worthiness as king, yet you’re the one guiding me and talking to everyone that we meet.”

Merlin grinned at that. “Isn’t part of being king making others do your work for you?” he teased.

“I suppose so,” Arthur conceded.

He tightened his grip on Merlin’s shoulder and pulled him closer, circling an arm around his neck and rubbing the knuckles of his other hand vigorously through Merlin’s hair. Merlin squawked in a very undignified manner and flailed, trying half-heartedly to get away. Arthur stopped, not releasing Merlin, but the servant seemed perfectly comfortable to flop on top of his king. As undignified as it was, it was worth it. Merlin was smiling again.

******************

The untethered horses had not gone far, seeming content to graze on the long marsh grasses nearby, and were caught again easily. Merlin once again took the lead, claiming to be able to recognize the sinkholes now that he’d seen one up close, and sure enough, he managed to guide them through the rest of the marshes without any more mishaps.

They began to ride again as the land grew steadily more rocky, until finally they found themselves in the shadows between two mountains. Arthur supposed that this would be a likely area to find a cave, and started to look around expectantly.

Suddenly, out of nowhere, a man in a long coat appeared flying through the air. He hurtled straight into Merlin, who was riding in front and had no chance to brace himself, knocking Merlin off his horse. They went tumbling to the ground together.

Merlin grappled weakly at his attacker, who had landed on top and didn’t appear to be winded in the slightest, but his struggles had no impact. He was going to lose this battle. 

Arthur hastily dismounted and drew his sword with a loud ring, getting the attacker’s attention. When the man turned to face Arthur, Merlin managed to kick out, surprising the man enough that he rolled off of Merlin, onto his back. Arthur rested his sword at the man’s throat.

He raised his blade for the killing blow, but Merlin, who had been studying the man intently since he’d gotten free, shouted “No, wait!” and grabbed his arm.

“Merlin,” warned Arthur, concerned that Merlin would have the same problem that he’d had with the Saxon boy, and frustrated that they would have to rehash that argument. But Merlin shook his head.

“Look!” Merlin grabbed the man’s unresisting hand and raised it to show Arthur. “His ring! This man is a knight of Camelot!”

Arthur paused. Merlin was right. The man was wearing a ring bearing the royal seal of Camelot as well as his own coat of arms. 

With a shake of his head, Arthur returned to the problem at hand: namely, what was a knight doing out here, dressed as a druid, attacking them? He yanked the man upright, keeping the sword on him, and ordered Merlin to pin his hands.

The man said something in the druid language. Merlin frowned, but didn’t translate, even when Arthur asked what he had said. 

“What is your name?” Arthur asked the man. He was a knight of Camelot- he must be able to speak English.

When the man refused to answer, Arthur asked again, louder, and pressed his sword harder against his neck threateningly. For once, Merlin did not look upset about this. The man, on the other hand, glared at him. “I’m called Balinor,” he finally answered gruffly. “Knight of Camelot.”

******************

Balinor reluctantly led them to a small clearing nearby where he had set up camp, and Merlin and Arthur worked together to set up their own bedrolls although it was not yet dusk. When they were done, Arthur sat by the fire warming his hands while Balinor casually fed the flames, tossing sticks in one by one. Merlin seemed oddly reluctant to come near, and stayed on the outskirts of the camp, ostensibly taking inventory of their supplies. Arthur knew that he was paying close attention though, and that his hands never strayed far from the hunting knife in Arthur’s pack. Arthur, too, kept one hand hovering around his sheathed sword.

“How have you survived up here for so long?” Arthur asked Balinor, breaking the silence.

“I am a member of the tribe of Iseldir. They took me in, made me one of their own,” Balinor stated flatly, clearly reluctant to divulge his life story. “I have a woman,” he continued. “My life is here now.”

Arthur nodded thoughtfully. He couldn’t agree with Balinor’s decisions, but understood the allure of a fresh start. It was something that he’d occasionally contemplated when he was younger and had fantastical visions of becoming a farmer somewhere far away from the responsibilities of kingship. 

“What happened?” Arthur asked simply.

Balinor took a moment before starting to tell his story. “I knew why your father was here. His hatred of all magic-users was insatiable,” Balinor began. “Still, our troops had it coming. Why did he have to come north? The people here were peaceful. They weren’t even citizens of Camelot, subject to Uther’s decrees against magic. We’re in Cenred’s kingdom here. Did he always have to punish and push on, looking for more druids to slaughter?”

“Just tell me what happened,” Arthur ordered, realizing that Balinor was stalling. Merlin, playing with their saddlebags again, listened closely. At Balinor’s admission that the army hadn’t had the right to invade the area, his face grew pinched and even darker, and he moved to sit beside Arthur. Arthur scooted closer to Merlin so that their shoulders touched, each offering silent support to the other.

“When we began our march north it was autumn,” Balinor said, acquiescing, his eyes dark. “The worst weather we’d had in years. For weeks we marched. No sign of anyone. Suddenly, they just appeared out of the mist.” Balinor paused, his eyes haunted as though he were reliving the memory.

“We could hear them picking the men off at the back, one by one. There was nothing we could do, though – this was their terrain, and they could tell exactly where we were at our weakest.” Balinor shook his head. “Finally, we just stopped trying to find open ground and we turned and faced them.”

“Those last few days… I’d never been so frightened,” he admitted. “We fought back to back. No sleep. They came at us like animals, like wolves, slaughtered us like we were nothing more than sheep. Those of us that lived survived only because we became like wolves ourselves.” Balinor was wiping his hand repeatedly against his trousers. He didn’t seem to be aware of his actions. “I got lucky,” he said in a rush. “I was found afterwards by a peaceful tribe that had not fought and was willing to take in an injured stranger, even if he was the enemy. They healed my wounds and gave me a new purpose and a family. I am one of them now.”

Balinor fell silent, looking through the fire into his own memories. No amount of prodding from Arthur could persuade him to say more that night. It was obvious to Arthur that Balinor had left out part of the tale – he had ended it abruptly, with no mention of Excalibur or Uther– but he couldn’t think what Balinor might be hiding.

“You will take us to the battlefield tomorrow,” Arthur ordered, hoping that more would be revealed there. Balinor shuddered but nodded.

******************

Arthur had trouble sleeping that night. He closed his eyes and tried to relax, curling closer to the fire, but it was no use. His mind was too active. The thought that Excalibur might be so close, that he might finally be able to restore the people’s faith in him was overwhelming.

The word “Ealdor” spoken by Merlin’s soft voice jolted him out of his reverie, and he abruptly realized that his friend was talking quietly to Balinor by the fire. Arthur listened closer, straining his hearing to try to catch any more words, but it was no use; they were speaking in the druidic tongue. Merlin’s voice sounded unusually young, and Arthur could tell that he was unhappy and frustrated, but he was speaking far too softly. Balinor, who had started out relatively calm and confident, was rapidly losing his composure as well.

After a particularly heated argument, Merlin broke off the conversation with a strangled cry, still quiet so as not to wake Arthur, and turned his back on Balinor. He angrily wrapped himself in his blanket and lay down as far away from the wild man as he could. Balinor looked troubled as well, but left Merlin alone and lay down to sleep himself.

Arthur contemplated asking Merlin what was wrong, but thought better of it. He would never get a real answer from Merlin in this state.

When Arthur was finally able to fall asleep himself, his rest was uneasy, and his dreams were full of red and gold and screams.

******************

They rode to the battlefield in silence. It was painfully obvious when they had arrived; a sickly scent pervaded the foggy air even now, of rotting wood and decay, and the green ground was literally carpeted with the bones of the fallen. Most still had the remnants of their armour surrounding them, though the flesh had been eaten away long ago. Arthur noticed that a disturbingly large number of skulls were not near the rest of their bodies. He suppressed a shudder at the thought.

There was greenery growing in the gaps between the bones sticking jaggedly out of the ground, making it look as though the skeletons were a strange sort of plant, or a strange rock formation perhaps. A centipede crawled into an empty eye socket, and Arthur turned aside briefly to retch as quietly as he could.

By an unspoken agreement, they had left the horses tied nearby so as not to disturb the site, but even on foot they were hard-pressed not to trip over the obstacles in the uneven ground.

“This is the killing ground. All the northern tribes were here. But the worst were the High Priestesses,” Balinor said roughly. “They had the most powerful magic, and they were ruthless.”

He indicated a couple of boulders to the right. “They used those stones as altars to kill the knights. They ripped their hearts out while they were still alive and used them to enhance their spells. The hearts would be burnt to a crisp, and the men…”

Tears threatened to fall down Arthur’s face, but he brushed them away roughly before they could, hoping that no one would notice. Merlin was lagging behind, looking around carefully but showing no emotion. 

“Are you all right?” Arthur asked Merlin quietly, trying to distract himself from his own horror. Merlin nodded but wouldn’t look Arthur in the eye.

“I wasn’t anywhere near, but we could all hear them being sacrificed,” Balinor continued relentlessly.

“My father?” Arthur prompted. “What happened to him? And Excalibur?”

“The last time I saw your father, he still had the sword, but he was surrounded by the High Priestesses.”

Arthur swallowed. He could imagine the battle. The outcome didn’t need saying aloud. Still, he had to ask, “Did he die fighting?”

When Balinor didn’t answer, staring off into space, Arthur repeated his question louder, successfully breaking Balinor out of his trance. “I don’t know,” the man shrugged, shaking his head. “I ran before the end. A lot of us did.”

Arthur had guessed as much. Still, he was furious at the idea that knights of Camelot would desert their king in a time of need. Hearing Balinor admit it out loud was enough to enrage him. “You coward.” Arthur wanted to spit on the man.

“No!” Balinor insisted. “You weren’t here. You don’t know what it was like.”

Arthur worked his jaw for a moment, until he could speak without screaming or cursing. 

“Fine,” he said brusquely. “Who has Excalibur?”

“They say that, as Uther was dying, he thrust his sword deep into a rock. The magic in the blade ensured that it was stuck fast; only his heir can pull it out again. You.” Arthur gaped at Balinor, who chuckled a little. “The High Priestesses knew how much the sword meant, but they couldn’t free it from the rock. So they picked the whole thing up and carried it with them back to their home in the north.”

“Where can I find them?” Arthur asked.

“I don’t know,” Balinor said, but Arthur could tell that he was holding something back.

“Tell me what you’re hiding,” he ordered.

“What?” Balinor asked warily. His eyes darted between Arthur and Merlin, who had moved to either side of him now, flanking him.

“There’s something you haven’t told me,” Arthur accused. “I can tell. What is it? Is it to do with Ealdor? Have you been there?” Out of the corner of his eye, he could see Merlin flinch at that and try to say something, but he ignored him, focusing all of his attention on Balinor, who was looking trapped but not speaking.

Arthur, rapidly losing patience with the man, put his hand on his sword, prepared to draw it out for further motivation. At the first glint of steel, though, Balinor’s eyes suddenly turned golden, and the sword went flying from Arthur’s scabbard to land somewhere in the woods. Merlin took a step forwards, but Arthur shook his head to hold him off. There was nothing Merlin could do but get himself killed if he tried to attack.

“You’re a sorcerer,” he breathed, feeling acutely vulnerable without his weapon. Balinor bowed his head in acknowledgement. “That’s why the druids took you in,” he realized.

“I am a Dragonlord,” Balinor admitted. “Uther knew; we had been friends since childhood,” he added bitterly. “When he turned against magic users, I was still safe because he thought that I was on his side, that he could control me. And he was right – on his orders, I lured the very last dragon to Camelot only for him to slaughter it.” Balinor trembled, his face creased with the pain of the memory.

“But when he died, and the other soldiers saw me using magic to defend myself… well, I suppose they thought I was no better than the druids we were fighting. They turned on me, hacked at me with their weapons. And I ran.”

“And Ealdor?” Arthur asked, hoping to bring the man back to the present. “What do you know of Ealdor?”

Sure enough, his question jerked the man out of his reverie. “I stayed there briefly,” Balinor said. “It was many years ago, long before this disastrous battle. I had been on patrol. We were attacked by bandits, and many of us were wounded. A woman took me in, healed my wounds. We were…intimate for one night, and then I had to leave. I couldn’t stay. I had a duty to Camelot.”

“What was the name of this woman?” asked Arthur.

“Hunith,” answered Balinor wistfully.

Arthur turned to Merlin in shock. “So, he’s…?” he couldn’t get the words out to finish the question, but Merlin understood. He nodded. 

“My father is a deserter,” he affirmed, his voice only wavering slightly.

“No. I have no son,” Balinor stated firmly. Merlin hunched over at his words, tears running down his cheeks. If Arthur had been angry before, now he was blindingly furious.

“How can you say that?” Arthur exclaimed. “Do you even know how much Merlin suffered because you weren’t there?”

“That is no concern of yours,” retorted Balinor.

“Of course it’s my concern! I care about him! He needed you there to protect him.”

“This is my life,” Balinor answered. “I made my own decisions, and the only one I regret is ever following your father.”

“You are no true knight of Camelot,” Arthur hissed at him, furious.

“No,” Balinor agreed. “I’m not.”

In that moment, Arthur wanted nothing more than to stab this man, but Balinor still had information that he needed to know. 

“How do I find the High Priestesses?” Arthur gritted out, glaring at Balinor.

Balinor smirked slightly, then pointed two fingers behind Arthur at Merlin. “He could find them.” Balinor tilted his head, considering Merlin. “You insist that he’s my son. That has more implications than you’ve realized.” 

When Arthur just stared at him, uncomprehending, Balinor smirked and explained simply, “He has magic.” He lowered his arm as Arthur turned slowly to regard his servant.

Merlin was glancing sideways at Arthur. Anger and terror flashed on his face, but he did not try to deny the accusation.

******************

They managed to ride only a few minutes in frigid, furious silence before Arthur erupted at Merlin.

“I can’t believe you’ve been lying to me all this time!”

Merlin reigned in his horse and turned to confront Arthur incredulously. “What was I supposed to do? You made it very clear to me how you felt about magic. If I’d told you from the beginning, you would have seen me as nothing more than one of those filthy sorcerers that you’ve been raised to hate your entire life.”

“Yes!” Arthur shouted. “With good reason! My father was right. Magic corrupts. It takes decent men and turns them into monsters.” He continued, under his breath, “how the hell am I ever supposed to trust you now? 

“You speak with authority about magic, when really you know nothing,” Merlin spat bitterly. “Magic doesn’t corrupt any more than your own power as a king does.”

Arthur rolled his eyes. “Sure. Because having the power to obliterate anyone you disagree with isn’t dangerous at all. Even a king is accountable to his people.”

“I would never!” Merlin sounded truly horrified at the thought. “Magic is a tool, just like your sword is; it can be used for evil, yes, but it can also be used for good. I have made the choice to only ever do good with mine. It’s helped with the harvests in Ealdor, and healed more people than your physician Gaius ever did.” Merlin paused and stared Arthur straight in the face. “I used magic to heal your leg.”

Arthur was stunned. “I…you…what?” he gaped. His leg tingled as though he could feel phantom echoes of the magic on it right now, and he fought the urge to scrub at it until it was clean of the taint.

“Where do you think I was able to find medicinal herbs on my first day as a slave in your castle?” Merlin jeered. “The salve by itself is useless, just some leaves that I stole from a flower arrangement and ground up. I enchanted it so that it would numb your pain and draw out the curse left behind by the druid blade that shattered in it which was preventing your wound from healing.”

“What else have you done to me?” Arthur asked dangerously. “Have you been inside my head? Planted ideas? How many of the decisions that I’ve made have been my own? Was it even my idea to come after Excalibur, or did you put that thought in my mind to make it easier for you to escape and kill me?”

Merlin practically growled at that. “That’s the stupidest thing I’ve ever heard. I could have escaped at any time if I wanted to, but I didn’t! Because I made a promise to you, and we have a destiny together, no matter how much you wanted to ignore that.”

“How could my fate ever require a slave for its fulfillment?” Arthur asked, knowing he was being cruel but not caring. 

“Do you really want me to count the ways? Fine. I’ve healed you, I’ve guided you through the forests, I’ve fought for you, I’ve killed for you, I’ve…”

Arthur cut him off. “That was all part of your plan,” he asserted. “You just wanted to get me alone so you could…”

“So I could what?”

“I don’t know! What does it even matter? You’re right; you’re nothing but a dirty, lying sorcerer!”

“If that’s all I am, then maybe you should be more careful about antagonizing me,” Merlin warned, his voice low.

“How dare you?” Arthur shouted, furious at Merlin’s temerity. “You’re still my slave!”

“And you’d be dead a thousand times over if it wasn’t for me!” Merlin yelled back in Arthur’s face. He was angrier than Arthur had ever seen him before.

“I saved your miserable life!” Arthur roared. Distracted by his fury, he was caught unawares when Merlin launched himself at Arthur, sending both of them tumbling off their horses onto the grassy slopes. They rolled end over end down a ditch, landing with Arthur on top. Merlin grappled at his face, trying to choke him, then took a swing and somehow managed to flip them. Retaliating, Arthur grabbed at Merlin’s head, pulling him down, and they wrestled furiously, both too focused on trying to kill one another with their bare hands to even think about drawing weapons.

Then, abruptly, Merlin let go of his hold on Arthur and slowly looked up, gasping for breath. Arthur instantly saw the reason for Merlin’s cessation. His gaze gradually travelled up from the worn leather boots of the woman standing not five feet away from them, to the intricately carved wooden staff in her hands, to her practical trousers, belted tunic with engraved vambraces, and green cloak, to her smirking yet cruel face.

Merlin released Arthur completely, and scrambled to his feet. Arthur remained lying on the ground, but jerked his head around to see that they were surrounded, encircled by a ring of equally-terrifying warriors, most of which were women.

His attention was drawn back to the first warrior as she reached out a hand towards them. Her eyes flashed golden, and Arthur’s sword ripped itself out of its scabbard and went flying into her waiting palm. Not just a warrior, then. A sorcerer. His heart sank.

The woman barked a question in the druid tongue, which Merlin answered carefully. Arthur caught the names “Merlin” and “Taliesin” as he stood up slowly and unthreateningly, and brushed himself off. In return, the warrior gestured to herself and spoke the name Morgana.

Arthur knew that name. So this was one of the High Priestesses of the Old Religion, a devotee of the Triple Goddess, and one of the druids who had stolen Excalibur. He doubted that she’d fought in that battle, though; she looked no older than Arthur himself. On the other hand, he’d heard that the High Priestesses had ways of making themselves eternally young, so it was entirely possible that Morgana was as old as his father.

Arthur wasn’t sure if running into the exact band of druids that he was looking for on the road was lucky or not. There was a good chance that he would be taken to where Excalibur was, but there was an equally good chance that they had found out what Arthur was planning to do, and had come to kill him before he could complete his quest.

Morgana spoke again, this time pointing at Arthur with her staff. Wary of the magic she could do with it, Arthur instinctively took a defensive step backwards and frowned. He hated not understanding what was going on, particularly since he didn’t trust that Merlin was even on his side at the moment. Once again, he realized he was in a position where it would be incredibly easy for Merlin to just let him die.

Merlin looked at Arthur for a long moment, his eyes giving nothing away. Arthur tried to communicate with him silently, to convey his confusion and fear, but Merlin did not acknowledge him. The servant turned back to Morgana, and said something. He sounded worryingly satisfied and smug, his eyes daring the druid to challenge him. 

Arthur again looked at Merlin pleadingly, but Merlin still refused to explain what was going on, merely nodded slightly at Arthur. Arthur tried to relax and hope that Merlin would be generous enough to ask for both of their lives to be spared.

Somewhat incredulous, Morgana repeated the words that Merlin had just spoken, and eyed Arthur speculatively, then came over to examine him more closely. Arthur stared back, unwilling to show weakness. Without warning, she grabbed Arthur’s neck and forced his head back, then pulled out the ring Arthur had threaded onto a chain around his neck indicating that he was a knight of Camelot. Arthur tried not to react, but couldn’t help gagging against the choking sensation that the angle of his head induced.

Morgana released Arthur roughly, and turned to Merlin, ignoring Arthur, who clutched at his neck and looked around frantically trying to find some way to escape. By now, she had to know exactly who he was, and how dangerous it would be to keep him alive. She said something to Merlin, sounding surprised, then turned to make an authoritative announcement to the rest of her tribe. Arthur focused on stabilizing his breathing, somewhat heartened by the fact that Merlin was glaring at Morgana behind her back. And the fact that she hadn’t struck him down immediately.

When Morgana turned back to Merlin and spoke with him again, however, Merlin just nodded gravely, his posture loosening and relaxing. Arthur, still tense, looked at Merlin questioningly again, but Merlin continued to refuse to speak to him.

Morgana said something else to Merlin, who nodded once more, and then she signaled to the other warriors. Several of them rushed forward to grab Arthur. Arthur took another step back when he saw them coming and tried to fight his way free, but it was no use.

“No!” he shouted, struggling to loosen his arms from their iron grips. “What’s happening?” he begged. “No! Merlin? Merlin?”

But Merlin just watched as three men fought to keep Arthur restrained. One put a bone knife handle against Arthur’s throat, choking him again. “Merlin? Merlin!” he pleaded still, though his voice was weakening as his breath was cut off. They punched him in the gut a few times to get rid of any air that was left, and held him upright when he tried to double over, tying his hands together with a coarse rope.

Arthur tried to focus on the situation, to think of any way he could escape, but could not bring his mind out of the cycle of despair it had entered. This was it. He had failed his quest, failed his people. And Merlin… Merlin was a sorcerer. A liar. The enemy.

Merlin still refused to look at him, just nodded once more to Morgana, and fell into step behind her when she signaled to her warriors and began to march. The druids dragged Arthur along with them, bound and helpless.

******************

A few hours into the journey, the druid assigned to carry the lead of Arthur’s rope had the brilliant idea of tying it to a horse’s saddle at such an angle that he was forced to hunch over slightly while walking. When he stumbled, which was often, he was dragged along the ground, the rope biting into his flesh. The druids would laugh at him and kick him until he struggled to his feet once more.

Merlin spent the journey in quiet conversation with Morgana. They glanced at Arthur sometimes, and the look of contempt on both of their faces felt like a blow to the chest. Arthur found that it bothered him more than his chafed wrists, or his hands which had lost circulation hours ago, or even his ankle that he’d twisted in one of his many tumbles. On the other hand, it hurt less than his injured leg, which was burning as a result of the fight and subsequent forced march, so he did his best to focus his attention only on his physical pains.

That evening, they set up camp under a rocky crag that provided hardly any cover from the windy moor. Arthur didn’t dare approach the fire for warmth, not with all of the druids scowling at him. Instead, he huddled exhausted in the darkness outside the flames’ mockingly cheerful glow, hands bound to a tree along with the horses. He was tired enough that he should have fallen asleep immediately when they halted, but his various aches and pains kept him torturously awake.

He listened to the druids laugh and sing. Clearly they were not afraid of outside attack, or of any anything that he might do. They passed around bowls of some sort of meat stew that smelled good enough to make his stomach rumble, but did not offer him anything to eat. He shivered, hunching further into himself when a passing druid laughed and casually kicked his injured leg, sending an explosion of pain up along his entire side. 

Arthur breathed through the agony until it subsided enough for him to uncurl. He knew that his current situation was hopeless—he was literally surrounded by magical warriors—but he desperately hoped that he would have a better chance once they reached wherever it was that they were going. At the very least, he would no longer be the center of everyone’s attention. In the meantime, he forced himself to think about how he was going to get revenge on Merlin if…when he escaped.

It was strangely relaxing. He was contemplating a truly horrific combination of the stocks and a swarm of bees when he finally dropped into a troubled, unrestful sleep.

******************

It took four days of unrelenting misery on Arthur’s part for them to reach their destination. At one point on the third day, Arthur decided that he had stumbled once too often and gave up the fight against gravity, content to be dragged along by his arms over the rough ground. He only made it a few feet, though, before the druid assigned to him noticed and halted her horse. The woman dismounted and came over, yelling at him words that were probably obscenities and orders to get back up. He ignored them. In response, she kicked him hard in the kidneys, and then moved on to the rest of his body when that failed to produce the reaction she wanted. Arthur grunted, but stubbornly refused to get up, curling his body away as much as possible to protect himself. In spite of the bruises he could already feel forming, he couldn’t help being grateful for the rest, however short it might be.

The disturbance drew the attention of Merlin’s new friend, who halted the entire group and came over along with Arthur’s former servant to see what the fuss was about. The warrior stopped hitting Arthur, and stood back respectfully.

Merlin crouched down beside Arthur. “Get up,” he hissed, but Arthur shook his head sluggishly.

“You might as well kill me now,” he slurred, unable to even raise his eyes to meet Merlin’s.

Merlin growled at him, and his eyes glowed golden. To his shock and terror, Arthur found himself being hauled upright by a gigantic invisible hand, and deposited on his feet. The other warriors, crowded around to watch the spectacle, laughed raucously, and Arthur flushed with shame, ducked his head away.

As they prepared to continue, Morgana gave Arthur a shove that nearly knocked him off his feet again. He caught himself though, barely, and glared impotently at the druids, who had burst out laughing again. Doing so, he realized that it felt as though the pain had been magically drained away from his knee. Magically… 

He glanced over at Merlin, who was examining him, his face unreadable. He met Arthur’s gaze, though, and gave him a minute nod before turning around and walking back to the front of the line. Morgana didn’t seem to notice, as she smirked at Arthur and followed Merlin.

Arthur didn’t know what to think. Had Merlin done that? Why would he? All he could conclude was that his rebellion had accomplished nothing, and it would be unwise to try again. Wearily, Arthur put one foot in front of the other, the questions swirling in his mind.

******************

They arrived at a small town on the seashore shortly before sunset. Everyone stared at Arthur as the band of warriors passed. He tried to keep his head up and look proud, but the days of hard travel and little food had weakened him too far, and he let his chin slump against his chest as the entire tribe, women and children included, came out to ogle.

The band stopped before a hut, and waited until a blonde woman in an incongruously fancy red silk dress emerged, followed by a dark-haired young boy. Arthur caught the name Morgause. So this was another of the infamous, terrible witches who had killed his father. Arthur felt a spark of fear in his chest, followed by one of anger, but tamped them both down. Neither could help him- he was at the mercy of the High Priestesses.

Morgause said something mockingly to Morgana, and smirked. The rest of the tribe laughed, though Merlin did not. Arthur wasn’t sure whether that was a good sign or not, but found his tired mind wandering to the fact that Morgana must have learned her annoying habit from Morgause.

Then, Merlin stepped forward, introducing himself. Arthur heard his own full name and “Camelot,” and shivered at the sudden gleam in both Priestesses’ eyes. He knew perfectly well what a good bargaining chip the king of a realm was, even though he was also aware that it was highly unlikely that anyone in Camelot would be willing to pay for his safe return. In fact, they would probably be glad to be rid of him once and for all.

“Arthur Pendragon,” Morgause repeated, savoring the sound of his name in her mouth. She said something to him in the druid language, the only bit of which he understood was his name again, said slowly and menacingly. He glared back defiantly as the tribe erupted into laughter again.

She regarded him intently, ignoring the laughter of the crowd, then turned abruptly to Merlin and, to Arthur’s shock, bowed her head. She said something to him, then Morgana tugged on Merlin’s sleeve and began pulling him eagerly into the tent.

“Merlin,” Arthur whispered, terrified of being left alone amongst the druids who looked like they wanted nothing more than to skin him alive. He tried again louder when Merlin showed no sign of resisting Morgana’s pull. “Merlin! What’s happening?”

Finally, Merlin looked at him full on, his expression blank. “You’re my slave,” he said flatly, and Arthur’s heart plummeted as any residual hope he’d been holding onto was instantly quashed. “Do as I did for you, and you’ll survive,” Merlin added as Arthur was cuffed about the head and dragged away. He couldn’t help turning to look at Merlin in horror, but Merlin ignored him and went to greet the boy who had come out of the hut behind the priestesses.

******************

They tossed Arthur into a tent, and he landed heavily on one arm, bleeding from where they had struck him on the way. He scrambled to his knees as quickly as he could, expecting more torments, but instead found himself facing no one but a heavyset old woman. She smiled kindly at him as she motioned him closer, and poured him a steaming bowl of soup from the pot in front of her. He took the bowl from her gingerly, suspicious of her motives. The woman made an eating motion, and he nodded, understanding what she wanted, and brought the bowl to his lips. Surely they would not have brought him all this way only to poison him now. The first sip burned his tongue, but tasted delicious, and he gulped as much food down as possible, ravenous after not having eaten a decent meal in days.

While he ate, the woman disappeared into the back of the tent, and returned a moment later with a bowl of water and a cloth. She began dabbing at the cuts on his exposed shoulders before he finished eating, and it hurt enough to drive away the rest of his appetite. He curled the bowl close to his chest so she would not take it away, though. The tenderness on her face, and her concern when she reached a sensitive wound and he flinched were nearly enough to make him cry. If he could remember his mother, he was sure that this is what she would have been like.

“Thank you,” Arthur told her when she finished her ministrations, and helped him over to a rough pallet on the ground. She seemed to understand what he meant, smiling at him and nodding her head.

******************

Arthur adjusted to his new life far more quickly than he would care to admit. His days took on an almost soothing monotony very fast. He would be kicked awake just as the sun was rising by the kind woman whose tent he lived in, who, as it turned out, was not at all sympathetic to people who wanted to sleep late in the mornings. She would shove a bowl of lukewarm gruel into his hands, which he was given about five minutes to eat before another druid came to drag him out of the tent and over to whatever demeaning, laborious activity they had planned for him today.

Someone would explain what he was meant to do, mostly via pointing at various tools and locations, and then miming what they wanted from him. Arthur quickly discovered that he was hopeless at most of the tasks they set. He was a warrior and a hunter and a diplomat, not a cook or a stableboy. His fingers were too indelicate for him to be able to mend fishing nets, nor could he clean the heavy clay pots without dropping and shattering several of them. He supposed that he would be good at sharpening swords or fishing, but they would not let him anywhere near weaponry or the sea, presumably since they didn’t trust him not to try to kill them. Or himself.

To make matters worse, it turned out that the druids liked to watch him as he worked. Crowds of them would gather to giggle as he clumsily tied knots in nets or mucked out the stables, murmuring amongst themselves. Commenting on his technique, no doubt. Arthur did his best to ignore them, but it was difficult, especially when they got bored and started throwing things at him to make him go more quickly. Once, a small stone glanced off of his hand, making him drop the shovel he was holding, and all the horse dung in it spilled onto his shoes. The druids laughed about that incident for days, pointing at his boots whenever they saw him.

At dusk, he would be allowed to stumble back to his tent and handed a bowl of fish stew and a hunk of bread. He would fall into an exhausted stupor minutes later, to the old druid lady singing a lullaby softly and stroking his hair. Then the next day would dawn far too early, and he would be rudely awakened from his slumber and set to work again, still tired and hungry.

There was not much of a chance for Arthur to pick up any of the druid language, but he did find that the druids called him þræl, which he supposed meant slave, as well as cyning, which meant king, and rídere, which meant knight, although the latter two names were hurled at him mockingly. Merlin, on the other hand, was emrys, always said with reverence, sometimes even with a touch of fear. He couldn’t guess what that word might mean, though, and Merlin himself wouldn’t tell him.

Merlin hardly spoke to him at all, in fact; usually only on the rare occasions when Arthur’s taskmasters were having particular trouble in getting him to understand what they wanted. Then, they would call Merlin over to translate, although they always seemed reluctant to interrupt him. Merlin would repeat what they had said coldly to Arthur, and then return to whatever he had been doing, as the druids cuffed Arthur’s head angrily for disturbing the great emrys.

Arthur also discovered that the boy that Merlin had befriended was called Mordred, and he seemed to live with Morgana and Morgause, although, from what Arthur could tell, he was not actually related to either of them. He was a precocious child, eager to learn what Merlin could teach him, and curious about the world around him. Interestingly, he tried to approach Arthur a few times as he worked, but other druids showed up quickly to herd him away.

The other name that Arthur learned was that of the woman whose tent he shared: Finna. He wasn’t entirely certain why she was good to him, although it was clear from her occasional interactions with them that she was no friend of the High Priestesses, nor did they like her. 

On the other hand, Arthur awoke several times, breathing heavily from half-remembered nightmares full of red and gold, to find Merlin conversing in low tones by the fire with Finna. He heard Merlin say his name in a questioning tone and Finna’s concerned reply, and hurriedly closed his eyes and feigned sleep when Merlin stole over to his pallet. He could feel Merlin kneeling next to him, and fancied that Merlin’s hands were hovering above him as he felt their magic washing his muscle aches and tension away.

Arthur didn’t know what to make of this. It was almost as if Merlin was trying to help him, but that didn’t make sense because if Merlin had actually cared, he wouldn’t have let the druids treat Arthur that way in the first place, right? 

It was no use thinking about it, though. Regardless of whose side Merlin was on, he did not seem inclined to be rescuing Arthur any time soon. Arthur was on his own.

******************

It soon became apparent that the majority of the warriors left camp at least two or three times every week, always returning with several large deer or a huge basket full of freshwater fish. Merlin often went with them, a fact which shocked Arthur, since he knew exactly how much Merlin hated hunting with him, although it occurred to him that the druids probably did it differently, and certainly would not make him clean their kills for them.

The first time that they left, Arthur had taken a look around the camp at the children and the elderly who had stayed behind, and thought about escaping. He never progressed any further than that though, realizing that, even if he managed to leave the camp, he could be hunted down again easily. Besides, he would never be able to find his way back to Camelot without a guide. Instead, he just sighed and continued his work.

When the hunters returned from a journey, Arthur would be handed a brush and the bridles of a dozen horses, and the entire tribe would turn out each time to watch him brush them down, giggling and throwing what he assumed were insults at him. He just kept his head down and wondered idly why they couldn’t use their magic to do the job for him. Probably because it was far more fun to watch the king of Camelot perform tasks normally assigned to a child. At least the horses did not seem inclined to judge him, he thought, patting one on the back.

He looked up in time to see the group of hunters walk by, and did a double take when he saw that Merlin was at the head, deep in an animated discussion with Morgana. Not only that, his customary brown jacket and blue shirt had been replaced with a rough-spun black tunic and a cloak of the same forest-green hue as Morgana’s. Arthur almost did not recognize him. As Arthur watched, Merlin casually reached out and put an arm around Mordred, who had run up to join them. Merlin bent down to say something to the boy directly, which set them both off in a fit of laughter. 

Arthur turned his eyes away. Merlin looked… happy. Truly happy, for the first time since Arthur had known him.

In fact, Merlin seemed to be flourishing here in this village. After keeping his magic a secret for so many years, Merlin now took every opportunity to use it, and even Arthur could tell that he was very good at it. He used it for everything from detouring storms away from the small town (although he always seemed troubled when he did this) to conjuring dancing leaves in the air for Mordred. 

Mordred was always delighted by Merlin’s fanciful tricks, and would try to imitate them, although he didn’t yet have nearly the level of control that Merlin possessed. It made Arthur wonder where Merlin’s own training had come from.

Arthur sighed, and turned his attention back to the horses. If he finished quickly enough, there was a chance that he could return to Finna’s tent early and get some extra sleep.

******************

By the time a few weeks had elapsed—Arthur had lost track of the days, but still retained a general idea of how much time had progressed—it seemed that he had finally become less of a novelty to the druid tribe. They no longer turned out in droves to watch him work, nor did they go out of their way to make his life miserable, although some would still aim a lazy kick at him if he was not careful.

They began to give him different jobs as well, finally allowing him to help with the fishing, as well as the preparation of the fish. He wasn’t sure how to feel about this. On the one hand, he was pleased to be able to do work that he could actually do well; on the other, he was disgusted at himself for giving in so easily, for not fighting his assimilation harder. 

Today, though, Arthur sat on a rock atop one of the cliffs facing the seashore, slowly shelling oysters with the (admittedly blunted) knife that they had given him. He was feeling curiously at peace, enjoying the unusually warm weather and the lack of any responsibilities beyond his immediate task.

After a few minutes, he noticed that two young druid women down on the beach were watching him. They were giggling, but he realized with shock that they weren’t laughing at him. rather, they were batting their eyelashes and preening themselves. Arthur smiled back at them, and did his best to flex his muscles as he shelled the oysters. He was rewarded by the women flushing and poking at one another.

His good mood abruptly disappeared when, out of nowhere, a huge force shoved him off of his rock, making him drop the knife and the oyster he was working on, and spill the basket containing the rest of them. The young women who had been flirting with him scrambled away, still giggling, as Morgana lifted him again with her magic and slammed him against the hillside.

She shouted something in Arthur’s face, which he could not understand. Arthur looked around frantically, unsure what he had done wrong, and was relieved to see Merlin hurrying over to see what the commotion over Arthur was about.

Merlin asked Morgana a question, and, at her answer, his face set. Without warning, he turned on Arthur and smacked him hard across the face.

Arthur was sent reeling again. He gaped up at Merlin, not knowing what to do. He was furious and terrified and would have loved to explode and slaughter every single person in the village, but with a huge amount of effort he managed to reign himself in.

Morgana and Merlin were talking again, but since he could not understand their words he didn’t pay attention, starting to gather up his oysters, and flinching only slightly when Morgana spat on him. He clenched his fists, stopped moving, and waited for them to leave.

But they did not. Instead, Merlin rounded on Arthur again, yelling at him to kneel.

Arthur glared at Merlin defiant, as Merlin shouted again, “Do it! Kneel.” There was something urgent in his eyes, but Arthur couldn’t guess what it was.

Merlin’s eyes glowed, and Arthur found himself being forced into a kneeling position by solid, unyielding air. He fought against it to no avail, until Merlin came around behind him and jerked Arthur’s head back, bearing his neck to Morgana, who had picked up Arthur’s knife.

Merlin spat something at Morgana, who stared down at Arthur for a long moment silently. Arthur tried to glare at her, but he was hyper-aware of his own pulse beating too quickly in his neck, and couldn’t slow his short, panicked breaths.

To his surprise, though, the knife never touched his skin. Morgana shook her head slowly. She bowed a little to Merlin, saying something deferentially, and then walked away, tossing the blade down. 

Merlin drew Arthur in closer, so that Arthur could feel his breath on his ear. “Don’t look at Morgana’s cousins again,” he whispered.

Oh. Ohhh. Arthur suddenly understood why Morgana had been so angry, and why Merlin had been so insistent that he comply. He gave the barest nod to Merlin, who slowly released him, then stood up breathing heavily. Arthur got to his feet as well, trying to manually slow his rapidly-beating heart down.

“What are you doing, Merlin?” he begged, with the wild hope that Merlin would laugh and tell him that it had all been a joke. Merlin looked like he was about to say something, but at an impatient call from Morgana, he turned away and went to join her.

Arthur fingered his sore neck, and wearily bent to collect the rest of the oysters that had fallen to the ground. 

******************

In spite of his circumstances, Arthur had to admit that the midsummer solstice celebrations were spectacular. The druids set up a huge bonfire quite a way down rocky beach, and spent the evening feasting merrily. Arthur was unable to enjoy himself, though, since he was kept busy scurrying around, serving food and wine, until he felt ready to collapse.

Shortly after the sun set, the mood abruptly grew serious, and Arthur was jerked out of his reminiscence. The elderly and the parents departed with their young children, leaving only the warriors sitting around the fire. Since no one was paying any attention to him anymore, Arthur took the opportunity to hide himself behind a low ridge to watch what was going to happen.

A new jug was passed around, each warrior taking a long draught before handing it to his or her neighbor. Based on their reactions to it, and the increasingly wild mood of the remaining druids, Arthur suspected that it was drugged.

As he watched, Morgause rose to stand dramatically above the flames and called out, gesturing wildly. A few young men and women stood up at her command, each clutching a weapon, and gathered behind their leader. At a signal from her, they began to battle one another, using an utterly terrifying combination of conventional weaponry and sorcery.

Arthur observed, fascinated, as multi-colored fireballs and lightning streaked through the air, and the ground periodically erupted beneath people’s feet, sending sand spraying in all directions. Shouts and percussive noises reverberated off the rocks, descending the scene into utter chaos. The rest of the druids were working themselves into a frenzy as well, calling out encouragement to their preferred champions and occasionally retaliating when an attack came to close to where they were still gathered around the fire.

Some indeterminate amount of time later, Morgause called a halt, magically amplifying her voice so that it could be heard above the noise of battle. The warriors dropped their weapons to their sides and let their spells die away. Arthur was shocked to see them all still on their feet, although a good number looked like they were standing only through the sheer force of their will. The rest of the druids fell silent as well, watching Morgause intently.

Morgause addressed the young warriors formally, and then presented them to the rest of the tribe, which broke out into raucous cheers and applause. Arthur realized that he had just witnessed an initiation rite or ceremony of adulthood of some kind. He was mildly terrified; if that was what the druids were capable of when they were merely testing one another, how much more dangerous would they be when fighting against actual enemies?

Someone started beating on a drum and someone else began to dance, then others joined in as well. It started off slowly, with the druids just swaying to the rhythm, but gradually picked up pace until they were throwing themselves about, frenzied, shaking with passion and excitement. The drums were beating unbearably fast, and Arthur felt that his heart was trying to keep pace with them.

At the moment when Arthur knew he couldn’t take anymore, and thought his heart was going to burst from his chest, Morgause turned to the sea and held out her hands. Arthur squinted, trying to figure out what she was doing, and inched closer.

It soon became obvious when a large rock floated into view above the waves, although Morgause kept it hovering just off the shore. There was a gleaming sword in it, glittering with the light of the bonfire, buried almost to the hilt. Excalibur! Arthur had to get closer.

He raised himself up cautiously, noting how the druids were bowing reverently to the sword in the stone, and hoping that they were drugged enough to allow him to snatch it and run without them noticing. Arthur did not allow himself to think of anything beyond that, knowing that if he did, he would realize how stupid of a plan it was.

To his surprise, he managed to make it a fair distance down the beach before one of the young warriors who had just fought in the initiation duel looked up and saw him. He raised his hands to defend himself, but it was in vain as the warrior’s eyes turned golden and she thrust out a hand. Pain suddenly blossomed at the back of his skull as everything went black.

******************

He was awoken far more gently than he had become accustomed to by someone kneeling behind him, shaking his shoulder and legs and whispering his name harshly. The person’s knees were warm against his cold back. For a moment he thought that he was back in Camelot, and tried to cover his head with a pillow to get rid of the annoying voice, but then realized that his head was currently being cushioned by sand, and that he was still on the beach next to the druid camp.

He startled to full consciousness abruptly, bringing his hands up in a futile attempt to defend himself from whoever wanted to hurt him this time, although he was blocked from rolling over fully by the body behind him. But the man did not strike him, merely held onto him firmly, and as Arthur’s vision cleared, he realized that it was Merlin’s face that was swimming into view. Merlin looked tense, his jaw set.

“It’s time,” Merlin whispered. “We have to do this now!” 

Arthur stared up at him, confused, and still only half-conscious. “It’s our only chance, while they’re asleep,” Merlin continued, and Arthur turned his head to the side to see that the rest of the druids were indeed all lying scattered on the beach in a stupor.

“What are you talking about?” Arthur asked. 

“Excalibur,” Merlin whispered. “We can get it.”

That woke Arthur up fully. “Why should I trust you?” Arthur said coldly. “I thought I was just your slave.”

“I’m so sorry about that,” Merlin said. “But they would have killed us both. It was all I could do.”

“You knew they had Excalibur.” It wasn’t a question, but Merlin nodded anyway.

“This was the only way. I hated it,” he admitted.

“Really? It didn’t look like that from where I was,” Arthur hissed. “You looked perfectly happy to live out the rest of your life here, doing magic whenever you felt like it, with your people.”

“Arthur, you were good to me. You saved my life and treated me like a real person even though to everyone else in Camelot I was just a slave. I never wanted to do this to you. You may think that I was freer here, but that is not true, because I could never be free knowing that you were suffering. But they never would have trusted me if I had told them we were…”

“What?”

“Friends,” Merlin said, meeting Arthur’s eyes. “We are. Aren’t we?”

Merlin was looking at Arthur with a mixture of concern and fondness. All of Arthur’s emotions were lodged in his throat, but he managed to choke out, “Yes. We are.”

A smile blossomed on Merlin’s face, and Arthur felt an answering one tug on his lips. “There’s one thing, though,” he added, pulling himself upright with Merlin’s help.

“What?” Merlin asked.

Arthur drew back a fist and punched Merlin squarely in the mouth. The blow was nowhere near as hard as he could have made it, but it still sent Merlin reeling in shock. Arthur shook out his hand, satisfied. “That was for the past few weeks,” he explained.

Merlin put a finger to his mouth and inspected the thin trickle of blood from where a tooth must have bit his lip. “Fair enough,” he said. “Are you ready to go now?” Arthur nodded.

He looked around, but couldn’t see the stone with its treasure anywhere. “It’s gone!” he exclaimed. “They had it right here, but now it’s gone.”

“I know. There’s a cave a little way down the beach. They keep it in there,” Merlin informed him. “Come on,” he said, dragging Arthur along.

They staggered along the beach, Merlin supporting most of Arthur’s weight, until he managed to get his legs underneath himself properly. When they reached the mouth of the cave, Merlin stopped and motioned to Arthur, who nodded his thanks and then entered first.

Inside, the lights of dozens of torches threw ever-changing patterns onto the walls. Arthur walked on his tip-toes, being as quiet as possible and motioning Merlin to do the same, but they soon found that there was no need for caution; the cave was utterly deserted, all the warriors still asleep on the beach.

They turned a corner, and Arthur stopped dead, transfixed by the sight of the gleaming golden sword sunk deep into a rock on a small island in the middle of a pool of water. The flickering light of the torches and the water made it almost appear to be showering sparks.

“Go on, then,” Merlin said quietly behind him. Arthur needed no further convincing. He eagerly splashed his way through the pool to the island, not bothering to keep quiet now that his prize was within his reach. Once he reached the island, he took a deep breath, then extended an arm slowly. He stopped before touching the hilt, though, his hand hovering in the air inches from Excalibur.

“What are you waiting for?” Merlin asked.

“I don’t think I can do this,” Arthur admitted, his voice cracking a little.

“Why not? Excalibur is waiting for Uther’s heir to free it. That’s you.”

“But what if it’s not?” Arthur dropped his hand to his side. “I’m useless, powerless. I just spent two months as a slave to the druids who killed my father.”

“You’re not useless, Arthur.” Merlin’s face was very grave. “Your experiences here have taught you humility and perseverance, and that will help you to be a great ruler. You have a perspective on the world that no other knight of Camelot could possibly have, but you will make them understand it anyway. You’re special, Arthur. You just have to believe.”

“I want to,” Arthur’s mouth twisted. “But I don’t know if I can.”

“I believe in you,” Merlin declared. “I have always believed in you. You are destined to be the greatest king the land of Albion has ever known. And nothing, not even this stone can stand in the way of that. Have faith, Arthur.”

At that, Arthur closed his eyes and carefully wrapped his fingers around Excalibur’s hilt. With one smooth motion, he pulled the sword out of the stone as easily as though it had never been trapped at all, and raised it triumphantly in the air.

He gazed at it for a long moment, elation and pride swirling inside of him. Arthur truly believed for the first time since he had become king that he might actually be worthy of Merlin’s praise. He lowered his eyes to meet Merlin’s proud smile.

“Told you,” Merlin teased, and Arthur burst out laughing in delight. He ran his finger along the side of the blade, tracing the runes carved into it, and admired the way that it reflected the golden light.

“I know you’re enjoying fondling your sword,” Merlin said affectionately, though he was now looking around worriedly and no longer smiling. “But there’s no time now. Let’s go,” he said urgently.

Arthur still took another moment to look back at the stone and marvel at the ease with which he pulled it out, until Merlin hissed, “We have to go now.” 

He made his way back through the water, this time making an effort to be less noisy, and began to follow Merlin back the way they had come. But they were stopped after only a few steps by a venomous shout that echoed throughout the cave. Both Merlin and Arthur spun around to see a woman in a mask brandishing a sword of her own in a way that made it clear that she would use the weapon expertly and eagerly if given the chance.

Her words made Merlin pale and then flush, but Arthur didn’t get a chance to ask what she’d said because the two of them were rapidly surrounded by druid warriors.

There was no time for strategy. Arthur raised Excalibur and charged at the nearest druids, keeping them busy enough that they couldn’t think to use their magic. The sword felt perfectly balanced in his hand, as though it had been crafted especially for him, and sheared through his enemies’ weapons as if they were toys

Arthur neatly disarmed a druid, who promptly raised his hands and blasted a fireball at Arthur. There was no time to duck or throw himself out of the way, but he found himself swinging Excalibur through the air as though the sword had a mind of its own. It cleaved through the fireball, dissipating the magic as it touched it. The smile Arthur made at the sight was probably somewhat manic, but he didn’t let that bother him.

Merlin, at his back, was firing off spells at a rapid pace, defending himself from physical attacks with a sword he’d managed to rip out of another man’s hand. Arthur spared a moment to be concerned about this, but had to trust that Merlin was really on his side and that he could take care of himself.

Arthur cut down two more druids before the battle haze lifted from his mind enough for him to realize that the way in front of him was clear. The only one left was the masked woman, who had been hanging back. He turned and threw himself at her with a growl.

He’d been right; she certainly did know how to use a sword, and she had also mastered the art of simultaneously fighting with her magic as well. Chunks of cave ceiling detached themselves and fell on Arthur as they fought, while the water around his ankles periodically froze him in place or tried to pull him down. He did his best to avoid the falling rocks, Merlin countering some of her spells with his own, without getting directly involved himself, recognizing that this was something Arthur needed to do on his own. The spells that he did not see, Arthur dissolved with the help of Excalibur.

The woman quickly discovered that he was favoring his weaker left leg, and pressed the attack on that side, managing to land a solid blow to his bad knee that made him stagger backwards gasping. The old wound broke open, and blood began to trickle down his leg, but Arthur steadfastly ignored it.

Then, the woman raised her hand again, and Arthur noticed suddenly that she was wearing a ring. A ring that he recognized, - he wore its twin around his neck. On its face was carved not just the symbol of a knight of Camelot, but the signet of the king.

He snarled and pressed his attack harder, finally managing to crack her hard enough in the head with the hilt of his sword that she fell to the ground, her mask ajar. Arthur reached out tentatively to rip it off fully, and, unsurprisingly, revealed Morgause’ smirking face.

The sorceress smiled menacingly at him, and opened her mouth to say a spell. Arthur didn’t give her the chance. He stabbed Excalibur through her belly firmly enough that he heard the metal blade ring as it hit the stone floor.

Morgause gasped. Arthur grabbed her by the shoulders. "Where did you get my father’s ring?” he shouted in her face. She just sneered at him and said something in the druid language, then went limp. Arthur shoved her away wearily and stood up, breathing hard and trying to surreptitiously examine the extent of the damage to his leg without letting Merlin know that there was a problem.

“What did she say?” he asked Merlin, who came up behind him to look, also breathing heavily.

“We have to go,” Merlin said in lieu of answering Arthur’s question. Arthur nodded. He prepared to follow Merlin out, but at the last minute paused to rip the ring off of Morgause’s hand, already deathly cold. He tucked it in his fist and then hurried after Merlin, gritting his teeth and pretending that he was not limping heavily.

******************

They snuck back to the village silently, avoiding the still-sleeping, unsuspecting druids lying on the beach. Arthur let Merlin lead, doing his best to keep up in spite of the pain in his leg.

Once they arrived, Merlin sent Arthur to grab some food while he set about saddling the horses as quickly as possible.

“Ready?” Merlin asked when Arthur had returned, and he finished playing with the bridle on the second horse. Arthur nodded, stuffing the bread and dried meat he’d stolen into the saddlebags.

“Right,” Merlin said, and they were about to mount when Mordred appeared at the stable doors and said “Merlin” in a betrayed tone that was far too loud. Both men gasped and turned abruptly to look at the boy.

Merlin eyed Arthur, seemingly trying to convey some message that Arthur couldn’t understand, then went over to Mordred and knelt in front of him. Arthur raised Excalibur slowly and limped over to them. They couldn’t risk the boy rousing the camp; if that meant that Arthur had to kill him, then so be it, and Merlin could be as furious as he wanted. It would be better to lose his friendship again than for both of them to be killed, he thought, especially now that he had finally recovered Excalibur.

Merlin and Mordred were having a passionate if muffled conversation, Merlin clearly trying to be as kindly as he could towards the boy, who looked as though he was about to cry. At Mordred’s question, Merlin shook his head sadly, and pointed back towards the tents. Arthur tensed, but stayed where he was for now.

Mordred said something that made Merlin pause, then he spoke again haltingly and gently. Both of them nodded.

“Merlin,” Arthur said, making Merlin spin around. His eyes narrowed at the sight of Excalibur in Arthur’s hands. “If he wakes them, we’re dead and you know it,” Arthur added. Merlin ignored him, studying the boy instead. “He has no reason to protect us.”

“Do you trust me?” Merlin finally asked him point blank, turning around again. Arthur looked conflicted and didn’t answer. The truth was, he wasn’t sure; Merlin’s apparent betrayal had cut deeply, and he was having trouble believing that it would not happen again.

“He won’t betray us,” Merlin insisted pleadingly.

Arthur examined Mordred, whose eyes were wide, but there was a determined set to his mouth. Misery exuded from him, and a single finger curled in Merlin’s sleeve. Maybe he wouldn’t intentionally betray them, but Arthur was certain that it wouldn’t be hard for the druids to realize that he knew something about their disappearance.

Still. As long as he did not immediately go running to Morgana, Arthur and Merlin would have enough time for a decent head start that would give them a fighting chance to make it back to Camelot alive. He didn’t need to kill the boy. Arthur turned on his heel and went back to his horse, wrapping the sword in blankets to protect it, since he had no scabbard.

Merlin smiled, relieved, and reached into his tunic. He pulled out an intricately carved wooden dragon and handed it to Mordred, who turned it around and around and inspected it. Finally, the young druid wrapped his small fist around it and clutched it tight to his chest, sniffling a little.

Merlin stood and looked down at him for one long moment. Then, he ruffled the boy’s hair and turned to go.

Mordred stood there silently and watched them as they galloped off, until he receded far enough into the distance that they could no longer see him. Arthur sincerely hoped that they had made the right decision in leaving him there.

******************

They rode fast along the shore, pushing the horses as hard as they dared; if the beasts went lame, then there would be no chance of making it back to Camelot alive.

“How many days to Camelot?” Arthur called out to Merlin, who was riding in front.

“If we ride hard? Six, maybe seven,” Merlin shouted back.

Arthur nodded. “There’s no way they’ll be able to catch us on foot,” he assured Merlin, but Merlin did not look convinced.

“They can track us using magic, so we have no chance of evading them. And they can use magic to speed them up, make them need less rest.”

“Is there anything you can do?” Arthur asked him.

“I…maybe,” Merlin said warily. “Would you be willing to let me use magic on you?”

“If it’ll help our chances of making it back alive, then yes. Do whatever it takes.”

“Okay.” Merlin shut his eyes for a moment, thinking, then raised a hand and pointed his palm at Arthur, who did his best not to flinch away.

“It’s fine. Do it,” Arthur assured Merlin, when the sorcerer lowered his hand at Arthur’s reaction and looked concerned.

Merlin nodded once, and quickly recited a spell. Arthur gasped as he felt his weariness melt away, leaving him refreshed and revitalized. Even the ache in his leg and the pain in his head receded.

Beneath him, his horse whickered and shook its head, apparently feeling the same effects. Merlin’s did the same. Arthur laughed a little, delighted. “That was you before when Morgana shoved me with her magic, wasn’t it!” he exclaimed to Merlin, who gave him a twisted smile.

“Yes,” he said. “It was all I could do at the time; Morgana couldn’t suspect me.” He spoke another spell, this time aimed at the ground behind Arthur. “I’ve done my best to get rid of the physical trail we’ve left,” he explained. “They can probably still sense what direction we’re going in, though,” he added.

“Are you going to do that awakening spell to yourself?” Arthur asked when Merlin made no moves to do so.

Merlin shook his head. “I can’t,” he answered. “It only works on other people. I’ll be fine, though.”

“Are you sure?” Arthur was concerned.

“Don’t worry about me,” Merlin replied. But Arthur couldn’t help shooting his friend anxious glances now and again, deciding that he would call a halt at the first sign of Merlin needing a break. It would be better to have the druids catch up to them while they were well-rested than to have Merlin wear himself out and not be able to defend them with magic should it come to a fight.

******************

At Merlin’s direction, they eventually turned inland, getting off of their horses to lead them up the steep hills. With Merlin’s spell having worn off hours ago, every step he took sent a column of fire shooting up and down Arthur’s leg, but he said nothing, knowing that they couldn’t afford any time to stop.

“At least this way, we won’t have to re-cross the marsh,” Merlin declared with false cheerfulness.

Nearly all of his attention focused on putting one foot in front of the other, all Arthur could manage in reply was a rough “Mmmmh.”

At that, Merlin turned around, concerned. He took in Arthur’s pained expression, his limp, and the blood staining his trousers, and exclaimed “You’re wounded! Why didn’t you say?”

“It’s nothing,” Arthur insisted, but was betrayed by his leg, which took the opportunity to buckle under him. He fell to the ground, hard, with a groan that he was unable to stifle.

“It’s your bad leg,” Merlin said, putting a hand on his shoulder when Arthur tried valiantly to rise again. “Sit down.”

“We don’t have time,” Arthur protested as Merlin dug into his saddlebags for herbs and a bandage, still struggling to stand. “Just do your spell again.”

“That just masks the discomfort; it doesn’t actually heal anything. If we don’t treat it now, it’ll get worse,” Merlin informed him. “And then you won’t be able to walk at all.”

“Fine,” Arthur relented, realizing that he couldn’t stand up by himself anyway.

Merlin got to work as quickly as he could, grinding the herbs between two rocks. Arthur watched curiously, then ventured, “Merlin?”

“Yeah?” Merlin said, not looking up from his work.

“What about that enchanted salve you gave me before? Can’t you skip the medicine and just do the spell?”

Merlin grimaced. “It would cost me a great deal more energy than I can spare right now,” he admitted. 

“Oh,” Arthur answered, subdued. Merlin finished grinding the herbs into a powder, then poured out a little water from his own water skin and kneaded it to make a paste. 

“This will prevent your injury from getting infected, and will help a little with the pain,” he explained as he scooped up the paste onto his fingers, coming over to where Arthur sat. When he saw the extent of the wound he shook his head at Arthur, but didn’t scold him, just slathered the medicine over it gently and then wrapped the bandage firmly around it.

“Better?” he asked. Arthur nodded. He had one more question, though.

“Back in the cave. Morgause. What did she say?”

Merlin turned his head around, and wouldn’t look at Arthur.

“Come on,” he grunted, pulling Arthur upright. Instead of letting go, he wrapped Arthur’s arm around his shoulder to help support his weight, and took both of the bridles in the other hand. “There’s no time now,” he said, not answering Arthur’s question. “Let’s go.”

******************

Mid-afternoon of the third day, galloping across a plain, Arthur tensed as he heard shouts. They sounded close by.

“They’re coming!” he warned Merlin, his breath speeding up.

Merlin cocked his ear and listened, then shook his head. “Half a day behind,” he assured Arthur. “The wind always lies. As long as the horses hold out, we’ll be fine.”

But he spurred his lagging horse on even faster, and Arthur knew that he was worried. Half a day was not enough. The druids were catching up.

******************

They rode on and on. Arthur lost track of time, nodding off periodically on the back of the horse, and only coming to when he felt himself about to fall. At some point, he looked up and saw trees, and realized that they’d finished crossing the plains and were now in a forest. Merlin did his spell a few more times, but each time it was less effective. Arthur also noticed that Merlin himself looked worse after performing the spell and, under duress, Merlin acknowledged that it was draining him. When Arthur ordered him to stop doing it, Merlin protested, but Arthur thought that he looked relieved afterwards.

They rode on. Arthur found himself drifting further and further from his body, until suddenly he found himself halfway to the ground. He flailed his arms, but it was no good; he landed hard on his bad leg with a cry, fully awake once more.

Hearing Arthur’s shout, Merlin immediately reigned his horse and rode back to where Arthur was lying on the ground, trying pathetically to get up again.

“We’ll stop here for tonight,” he decided.

“No, we should keep going,” Arthur protested.

Merlin looked at him critically. “We need to rest and eat something. We’ll be fine.”

Grudgingly, Arthur nodded, and remained half-laying on the ground, shivering. Noticing Arthur’s discomfort, Merlin wrapped him in a blanket, explaining apologetically that it was too risky for fires. Arthur drifted off while Merlin took out some of the bread and meat that he’d packed, but woke up again when Merlin reached out to hand them to him.

“Here, eat,” Merlin said. “You’ve lost a lot of blood. You need to keep your strength up.”

Arthur took the food gratefully. He was starving.

“I’ve been wondering,” he said awkwardly as he ate. “Back in the arena, no one knew that you were a sorcerer, so you must not have been doing magic when you were captured. Why didn’t you fight with magic when the knights attacked your tribe? It’s not like you had anything to lose.” Arthur winced when he realized how indelicately he’d posed the question.

“Sorry,” he mumbled. “You don’t have to answer.”

“It’s okay,” Merlin replied. “I did use magic, actually, but the knights didn’t see me do it. And then one of them hit me on the head, and I couldn’t concentrate enough to use it anymore.” Merlin grimaced at the memory.

“Oh,” Arthur said. “So I should probably avoid smacking your head from now on.”

“That would be much appreciated.” Merlin smiled a little.

“If we end up fighting the druids, do you have any suggestions for me? Weaknesses common to all sorcerers, things like that?” When Merlin seemed reluctant to answer, he added, “I swear I won’t use anything you say against you.”

“I know you won’t,” Merlin said, but he still looked relieved to hear Arthur’s promise. “Um, Excalibur seems pretty effective against magic. And most sorcerers need time to say their spells and they need to be able to concentrate on the pronunciations. If you can distract them, they won’t be able to do any magic. Morgana, though—she’s like me. She can make things happen just by willing them to, sometimes.”

“So she’s the most dangerous,” Arthur mused. 

Merlin nodded. “And she’ll be angry. She and Morgause were… very close. And she won’t take my betrayal well either.” He twitched a little when he said the word “betrayal,” and looked anxious. 

“She told me once about a spell she found,” he went on, voice low. “It can drain someone else’s magic and lets you steal their power. She’s used it before against the sorcerers of rival tribes. If she does it on me…”

“Hey,” Arthur said, putting a warm hand on Merlin’s shoulder to get his attention. Merlin looked up at him, and Arthur was struck by how vulnerable he looked. “I won’t let her,” he promised.

“What can you do to stop her?”

“I’m going to kill her,” Arthur answered vehemently. Merlin looked skeptical.

“That’s harder than you’re making it sound,” he pointed out.

“But I will do it. For my father.”

“And for you.”

“Yes,” Arthur admitted. He squeezed Merlin’s shoulder, then leaned back, finishing off his meal. “I’ll take first watch,” he offered.

“Thanks,” Merlin said, and curled up near Arthur, falling quickly into a deep, exhausted sleep.

Arthur kept an eye on him that night, tensing occasionally when he thought he heard voices, but dismissed them as figments of his overactive imagination. Still, when it was his turn to sleep, his rest was uneasy, and his dreams full of blood and fire.

******************

Arthur was awoken abruptly shortly before dawn the next morning by a hand on his shoulder. He scrabbled for Excalibur, lying next to him on the ground, and then half-turned to find that it was only Merlin, who had backed away swiftly, hands raised in surrender, when Arthur had gone for his sword.

“Sorry,” Arthur swore. “I wouldn’t have…”

“It’s okay,” Merlin reassured him. “I’m sorry. I should have realized what would happen.”

“How long did you let me sleep?” Arthur asked, noting that the sky was beginning to lighten.

“Not too long,” Merlin answered, but Arthur was skeptical.

“We don’t have time,” he reminded Merlin.

“I know,” Merlin told him. “It’s time to go. They may know shortcuts.”

“Great,” Arthur grumbled, catching Merlin’s extended hand and using it to pull himself upright. He tried not to notice the fact that the bandage around his leg was now soaked through. “Lead the way, then,” he ordered.

******************

In spite of the extra sleep, Arthur did not feel rested at all. His leg was bleeding again, and it was getting harder and harder to stay aware of what was going on around him.

Going up a slope, he belatedly realized that Merlin was in trouble.

“Come on, keep going,” Merlin begged his horse. “Ha!” It struggled on a few more paces as though it could understand and was trying to appease him, but then its legs suddenly gave out and it fell to the ground. Merlin tumbled off its back with a cry.

Arthur brought his own rearing horse under control, and turned to Merlin, who was stroking his horse’s neck and murmuring to it in his language. It tried several times to stand again, but failed. Merlin met Arthur’s eyes and shook his head. There was nothing he could do.

“End it,” Arthur told him. Merlin bit his lip, but whispered some words, still rubbing the horse, until its painful breaths and writhing ceased.

“Come on,” Arthur said, reaching down to where Merlin sat trembling, his eyes wet. Merlin took his hand and mounted the remaining horse behind Arthur. He clung to Arthur tightly as they continued their flight.

******************

It quickly became clear that Arthur’s horse was not going to be able to carry the two of them very far. They left it tied to a tree and made their way as fast as they could through the woods, taking none of their supplies with them, although Arthur made sure to bring Excalibur. He gripped his sword tightly with one hand, the other arm swung over Merlin’s shoulder so that the sorcerer could take most of his weight as he walked.

They got to the banks of a deep, swiftly-flowing river, and stopped. Arthur eyed it dubiously. “The flowing water will help conceal our trail,” Merlin offered. 

“I thought that only worked for dogs,” Arthur grumbled, but acquiesced, wading slowly into the water, and inhaling sharply at the ice-cold temperature. He kept one hand on Merlin to help balance himself.

They had only made it a few paces downstream before they heard voices and branches snapping to their right side, and knew that they had seconds before the druids reached them.

“In here!” Merlin whispered harshly, shoving Arthur under an overhanging ledge sticking out from the right side of the riverbank. The water in the pocket was much deeper; so much so that Arthur was barely able to stand. Merlin slipped in after him, a split second before the druids arrived at the river. From the sounds of their voices, it sounded like they spread out, searching along the bank for their quarry.

Both Merlin and Arthur did their best to keep their breathing quiet, but Arthur couldn’t stop his teeth from chattering and his whole body from shaking in the freezing cold water. He clung desperately to a rock so as not to be swept away downstream by the strong current, but his grip was loosening as the cold numbed his body, and it was becoming harder to fight the urge to just sink down and let himself be carried off. Merlin grasped his sleeve tightly, anchoring himself, and used his other hand to hold Arthur’s head above the water.

They heard the druids’ footsteps, and both of them tensed even further when they realized that someone had paused directly above their hiding place. Looking up, they were able to see Morgana’s boots through a tangle of tree-roots. She stood there for what felt to them to be an infinitely long time, looking around. Arthur’s eyes kept sliding shut involuntarily, and Merlin had to tug on his sleeve to wake him up more than once.

Finally, Merlin gritted his teeth and looked as though he was preparing to cast a spell, regardless of the fact that doing so would give away their location. If they were going to be found anyway, then they might as well attack while they had the element of surprise, Arthur supposed. He only hoped that they would be able to take out enough of the druids with the first blow to give them a fighting chance.

Just as Merlin was about to release his spell, they heard Morgana shout something that made Merlin relax the death grip he had on Arthur. Sticks snapped as the druids continued down the river, their voices growing quieter until they faded away completely.

They waited a moment longer to make sure that the druids had really left, and it wasn’t a trick, then Merlin pulled Arthur out of their hiding place and to the other side of the river, where it was shallow enough for them to walk.

“We need to stick to the river,” Merlin said. “They’ll realize their mistake and double back soon enough, but it’ll still hide our trail.”

All Arthur could do was nod, shivering, and cling to Merlin as they made their way downstream.

******************

They made it a few leagues further before Arthur’s strength gave out. His legs buckled, sending him toppling face-first into the water. His water-logged clothes made all of his limbs feel twice as heavy, and he couldn’t move his arms enough to counter his weight as he sank to the riverbed. In his exhaustion, Arthur thought it felt strangely peaceful. He let his eyes close and his mind wander off.

The next thing he knew, he was above the water again, his lungs gulping down air involuntarily although his mind was still foggy. Merlin had a tight hold on one of Arthur’s arms, and his eyes were golden. He was saying something to Arthur, his voice low and urgent, but Arthur couldn’t understand him.

Then Merlin shook him, sending spray everywhere, and his head cleared enough for him to be able to focus on his servant’s words. “I can cast a spell on you to make you more buoyant,” Merlin was saying. Arthur just blinked at him. “Will you let me do that?” Merlin asked.

“Yeah,” Arthur acquiesced, tiredly. Seconds later, he felt his feet leave the bottom of the river, and panicked, fear giving him the strength to flail about madly. Merlin caught him, though, and helped him relax until he was lying on his back, gazing up at the brilliant green leaves of the overhanging trees. He did his best to ignore the fact that there was a tell-tale tickle in his lungs that would soon enough develop into a full-blown cough, and his forehead felt warm to the touch, in spite of the freezing water.

“Don’t move,” Merlin told him. “I’ll push you along.”

“Mmmh,” Arthur replied, and surrendered himself to the current and the reassuring circle of Merlin’s hand around one ankle.

It worked for some time, although all too often the river would drop a short distance and Arthur would fall, coughing and spluttering, down a tiny waterfall. His entire body felt like one gigantic bruise. 

Merlin could not maintain his spell forever however, and soon Arthur found himself getting heavier again. He struggled to his feet, grateful that they were in a relatively shallow part of the river. Merlin wordlessly slipped an arm around his waist to support him, and they stumbled on, locked together.

To Arthur’s dismay, it began to rain, drenching them both even further, and making them even colder and more miserable. He couldn’t stop shivering, although nearly his entire body was as numb as his mind. All he could do was step forward blindly one foot at a time, until his boot caught on a rock. Unable to catch himself, he fell forwards, dragging Merlin down with him.

Merlin disentangled himself from Arthur and pulled them both upright above the water again. “Rest,” he decided.

“We can’t,” Arthur protested. Try as he might, he couldn’t actually force his tired, abused body to stand, so with a sigh, he bowed his head against the rain and tried to crawl through the water on one leg, letting the injured one float behind him. 

“You need to rest!” Merlin shouted at him. When Arthur made no response and showed no signs of stopping, Merlin made an exasperated sound, then grabbed Arthur and hugged him to his chest, lending him whatever warmth he had to spare. “Arthur. You need to rest,” he said more quietly. Arthur coughed, miserable, and gave in, huddling as close as he could against Merlin.

Merlin let them stay that way for a moment, then gently let go of Arthur and stood up.   
“Come on,” he said, bending over to half-lift Arthur. “Out of the water.”

Arthur curled one arm around Merlin to help, since his legs had stiffened to the point of uselessness. Between the two of them, they were able to manhandle Arthur up onto the bank, where he lay on his back coughing harshly. Merlin stood before him and looked around while Arthur pulled himself up so that he was leaning against a rock. The new position made his breathing somewhat easier, and he reveled in the glory of the solid ground beneath him.

“I can’t go on,” he admitted, snapping Merlin’s attention back to him.

“Yes you can!” Merlin rejected his statement out of hand. “You just need to rest.”

Arthur shook his head. He was painfully aware that, even with Merlin’s assistance, he was not going to be able to move from this spot. Arthur picked up the blanket-wrapped sword lying beside him, and held it out to Merlin weakly.

“Take Excalibur,” he instructed Merlin, his arm sagging. It was getting harder to breath. “If you find horses, come back.” Arthur broke off, coughing helplessly, and slumped to the ground. Merlin made an agitated noise and tried to do something to help, but Arthur waved him off. Merlin held still with an agonized expression of indecision on his face.

When he could breath enough to talk again, Arthur added, “If not, just keep south. Make sure Excalibur gets back to Camelot.”

Merlin instantly shook his head, his indecision vanishing. “I’m not leaving you here,” he declared defiantly.

“Excalibur is more important,” Arthur begged. “Take it!”

Merlin took a step closer. Arthur sighed with relief, thinking that Merlin was finally going to obey him, but, to his disappointment, Merlin made no move to take the sword from him. “I came on this journey because of you,” Merlin refused, stubborn. “Some stupid symbol of kingship is not worth more than anyone’s life, but especially not yours.”

Arthur bit back a groan of frustration. He couldn’t quite bring himself to say the words ‘I’m dying,’ and suspected that, even if he did, Merlin would just protest further. No, he was out of options; there was only one thing left that he could think of to do, even though he knew that it would be unforgivable. He hesitated, looking at Merlin beseechingly, then straightened his back, hardening himself. “Merlin, I order you. Take it,” he said firmly.

Merlin’s face tightened instantly. Arthur understood. After all they had gone through together, Arthur was treating him like a slave again. But this needed to be done. He maintained his resolve, glaring stonily at Merlin, willing him to give in.

“I swore an oath never to abandon you,” Merlin stated. Then, something indecipherable flickered over his face, and he raised his chin. “If you want me to leave, then set me free,” he challenged Arthur. “Give me my freedom.”

Arthur didn’t even pause to think about Merlin’s offer. In truth, Merlin had ceased to be his slave the minute they passed through the gates of Camelot. Arthur nearly sobbed with relief that it would be so simple to get Merlin to go. He fumbled inside of his tunic, hands trembling almost too badly to be usable, but managed to pull out the amulet that Merlin had thrown at his feet so many months ago.

Trembling so much that the chain rattled in his grasp, he held it out to Merlin. “You’re free,” he told Merlin, with tears in his eyes. Merlin reached out and gripped Arthur’s outstretched hand tightly. His face was wholly unreadable, but Arthur thought his eyes looked wet as well. “You’re free, my friend,” Arthur repeated with a tremulous smile.

Merlin brought his other hand up to squeeze Arthur’s, then pulled back, holding his amulet. He stared at it almost as though he had never seen it before, biting his lip, and shuddered hard.

Arthur let him have his moment, then held Excalibur out to him again. “Take it,” he said once more, but Merlin pushed it away.

“No,” he said firmly.

At Merlin’s refusal, Arthur couldn’t speak. He just looked up at Merlin, hurt and betrayed, his lip quivering. “Please, no, Merlin,” he whispered inaudibly.

Merlin’s face softened. He crouched in front of him and reached out to cup the side of Arthur’s cheek. Arthur’s breath caught. Merlin tenderly stroked Arthur’s hair, pushing a strand of it out of his eyes and wiping away some of his tears. He cupped Arthur’s cheek with one hand, tilting up his face so that Arthur was forced to look deep into Merlin’s eyes, and see the truth and steely determination in them. “I will return,” he vowed.

Then he turned and ran off down the river far more quickly than Arthur would have thought possible given how exhausted he knew Merlin was.

Arthur watched him go until he disappeared amongst the trees, his mind sluggish and slow. In spite of Merlin’s confidence, he could not bring himself to believe that he would be surviving this journey. Arthur tried to console himself with the fact that Merlin would be far away, safe, by the time the druids returned, but he could not push away the despair that settled heavily on him. It was even worse than in the High Priestesses’ village, because this time Merlin was gone. He truly had no hope.

Alone, he wrapped his arms around Excalibur, and turned his face to the sky, welcoming the rain that disguised his tears. 

He stayed that way for a long time.

******************

Arthur came back to his senses with a start, and realized that he must have drifted off. He looked around carefully, trying to determine what had caused him to awaken, but could not see or hear anything out of the ordinary. He did notice that the rain had stopped, although the ground was still very wet and the world was wrapped in fog and mist.

Arthur turned his attention to the bundle in his arms that he was still clutching tightly. It felt warmer than it should have, even cradled against his body, and his hands were tingling slightly where he touched the blanket.

His first instinct was to drop it immediately and scrabble backwards. It was only when he did so that he realized that the misery and exhaustion which had been weighing him down had disappeared. Even his knee felt better than it had before. It could not have been Merlin’s doing, so…

Arthur cautiously approached the sword lying on the ground and reached out to touch it with one finger. He felt a zip run up his hand, like a distant echo of lightning, but it did not hurt. Rather, Arthur felt even more of his strength returning.

He sat down on the rock he’d been leaning against, and hastily unwrapped Excalibur. As he inspected it in the light of day, he could see places where the constant exposure to salty air and seawater had taken its toll on the metal; however, the entire weapon was glowing with undeniable power. When he touched it with his bare hand, a jolt shot through his entire body that made him nearly lose his grip on it. If he concentrated, he fancied that he could almost feel the sword’s joy at being reunited with its master.

Excalibur. A blade forged in magic for the Pendragon line, which would not let its wielder give up without a fight. He wanted to laugh aloud.

Arthur tugged one sleeve down over his hand, and began using it to polish the sword. He kept his mind focused on the motions, doing his best not to think about where Merlin might be, or how long he had before the druids realized they had been tricked and found him. Under his ministrations, the sword slowly regained its luster, years of film rubbing away. 

Finally, Arthur stopped, and held it up, satisfied. The sword wasn’t just reflecting light- it seemed to be glowing from within, and he could tell by the tingle running up his arm that it was eager to be used.

The feeling buoyed him up to his feet. He felt as though he could take on the entire druid army singlehanded. Arthur forced himself to stop and think, though. The area he was in was not very defensible; if he wanted to put up a good fight, he would have to get to better ground. It would do no good to remain and hope that Merlin returned.

He grabbed a fallen branch from the ground and began making his way in the direction Merlin had gone, using the branch as a walking stick to help keep his footing on the uneven ground.

******************

After about an hour, the river, which had really been nothing more than a shallow stream for several leagues, widened again, and was lost in misty fog. Arthur halted, not wanting to leave the relatively sheltered part of the bank he’d been following. But he couldn’t just leave the river and strike out through the woods either; he would undoubtedly leave an obvious trail, and he didn’t know which way he should be heading in any case.

Instead, he turned in a slow circle, and decided that this was as good a place to make his last stand as any. Lacking any place to sit, he leaned on his staff, scanning the forest for signs of life.

Soon enough, he heard indistinct voices filtering through the leaves, and the crunch of sticks snapping under boots. Arthur twirled Excalibur in a complicated pattern, admiring the way the sword shone in the pale, damp light, ready to fight.

He was aware that his chances of survival were almost nonexistent. Even with Excalibur, Arthur stood no chance against dozens of rightfully angry sorcerers. 

He was going to die. 

But that didn’t mean that he was going to go down without a struggle. 

Arthur looked around hopefully one last time, but there was no sign of Merlin. He was fighting alone, then. Arthur raised Excalibur and went into a well-practiced fighting stance. There was nothing to put his back to, so he paced in a circle, trying to determine which direction the noise was coming from. As the footsteps came steadily closer and closer, Arthur thought he could feel his sword vibrating with excitement.

A line of indistinct figures appeared out of the fog, and Arthur snarled, preparing to charge. But, as he watched, they slowly resolved themselves into men carrying shields. Not the druids, but who? Arthur was confused but wary – were these men allied with the High Priestesses? He held his ground and didn’t lower his sword.

As the line came closer, Arthur abruptly realized that the shields all bore an image of a dragon—the same image that appeared on his ring—and that the men marching towards him were in perfect formation. He gasped in recognition.

One man stepped forward, tall and dark-haired and still as slight as though a breeze could blow him over in spite of how much Arthur knew he’d eaten in the druid village. He smiled triumphantly at Arthur. “Your father’s knights,” he announced. “They would like a chance to regain their honor.”

Arthur gaped at him, unable to speak or move, or to comprehend the magnitude of what Merlin had just accomplished in convincing the long-lost soldiers to come to their aid. 

He felt a plaintive “Merlin” torn out of his chest. Merlin quirked a grin at him, then rushed towards him with his arms out. Arthur stuck Excalibur in the ground alongside his walking stick and ran to his friend.

They met and embraced tightly, both gripping the other as though they never planned to let go. Arthur buried his face in Merlin’s shoulder, and breathed in his friend’s sweat and joy, and the slight tang that had to be his magic.

“Told you I would come back,” Merlin said smugly, though Arthur could hear how raw the words were. He snuffled, half-laugh, half-sob.

“Thank you,” he whispered, and clung tightly.

All too soon however, Arthur heard one of the men clear his throat and cough slightly, and raised his head to see Balinor tapping his shield impatiently.

“Not to interrupt the moment,” Balinor said wryly, “But we’re about to be overrun by druids any minute.” Arthur sighed and stepped back. “I don’t suppose you have a battle plan?” Balinor asked him.

“Right,” Arthur answered, doing a quick count of the soldiers. There were fourteen of them- nowhere near enough to take on the entire druid army, but the odds were still better than just him alone. His mind sped through the military tactics and battle formations that had been drilled into his brain since a very young age, discarding most as useless in this terrain against the formidable enemy.

“Form a circle facing outwards,” he ordered. “Shields at the ready, and step in to fill in the gaps if anyone falls.” The men nodded and did as he commanded. Merlin took his place by Arthur’s side.

“Thank you,” Arthur whispered to him.

“You’re welcome,” Merlin answered easily.

A slight rustling in the trees was all the warning that they got before the druids appeared suddenly, dropping down the steep banks and sloshing their way through the broad part of the river to form a line several warriors thick. Arthur signaled in response, and the old knights fanned out, forming their own line with Arthur in the middle.

Neither group made a move to attack. The knights shifted uneasily, adjusting their grips on their weapons. Arthur’s face tightened when Morgana stepped forward and shouted Merlin’s name, then added something in their language. He glanced over at his friend, wondering what she’d said, but held his tongue when he saw the look of horror and despair on Merlin’s face.

Another warrior stepped out of the druid’s ranks, and Arthur understood Merlin’s reaction when he saw who the warrior was dragging along with her. Mordred stumbled through the water looking confused and scared. His eyes met Merlin’s and he mouthed something that probably meant, “I’m sorry.”

Morgana positioned the boy in front of her, then took out a long knife and held it to his throat, her other hand wrapped in Mordred’s tunic so that he could not run away. Merlin shook his head pleadingly, but she ignored him, chanting a spell. 

Arthur gasped as golden light poured out of Mordred, dancing along Morgana’s blade and up into the hand holding it, then along her arm until her entire body was glowing with the stolen power. She kept her eyes fixed on Merlin the entire time, a terrible smile on her face. Merlin let out a dry sob, trembling, and made as if to break formation and charge at her, but Arthur’s firm hand on his shoulder held him back.

An eternity later, the final few whisps of magic drew themselves out of Mordred and disappeared into Morgana’s skin. The boy slumped in her grasp, unconscious. Still without taking her eyes off of Merlin, Morgana slit the boy’s throat deliberately and methodically, then gently lowered his body into the water. 

“No,” Merlin whispered vehemently. Arthur prepared to give the order to attack, but before he could, Morgana shot her arms out, and hurled a wave of pure energy at the knights. Merlin immediately stepped in front of Arthur and raised his own hands, and the front edge of the attack bounced off of an invisible shield inches away from them, throwing off golden sparks.

Merlin staggered under the strength of the magic Morgana threw at him, falling to his knees. With a growl, Balinor stepped up and added his own power to Merlin’s shield spell, taking some of the brunt off of his son. Some of the knights muttered amongst themselves, but Arthur quieted them with a look. 

Morgana frowned, looking pale, but Arthur didn’t want to test Merlin’s ability to hold off another attack like this one. As soon as she released her magic and Merlin lowered the shield, Arthur raised Excalibur. “For the love of Camelot!” he cried and led the knights in a charge against the druids, who unsheathed their weapons and met them eagerly. Merlin remained kneeling on the ground, Balinor beside him with a steadying hand under his elbow, and the rest of the knights closed the gap that was left in the shield wall.

The opposing sides met with a violent clash of swords. Arthur hacked and slashed, the adrenaline from the fight making him forget about his lingering pain. Out of the corner of his eye, he could see his father’s soldiers doing likewise. Impressively, in spite of their age and lack of magical abilities, they were managing to hold their own against the druid warriors, pairing up to attack each druid from both sides so that the sorcerers had no opportunity to recite their spells. 

Soon, Merlin had recovered enough to join the battle as well. He fought back to back with Arthur, wielding a sword with both hands that had lightning running down its length; every time his blade connected someone received a nasty shock. Neither he nor the druid sorcerers could do anything fancier, without harming their own allies with an errant spell.

Even with Merlin’s magic and the aid of the knights, it quickly became obvious to Arthur that he was going to lose the battle. The older knights, unused to combat after so many years, and using old heavy equipment, were tiring, and began to fall. Their bodies became stumbling blocks for the living, and their blood left trails in the flowing water.

Arthur looked up and saw Morgana’s eyes darken as she caught sight of Merlin. She made a beeline towards him through the chaos of the battle, cutting down any knight that stood in her way. Balinor, who had joined the fight at the same time as his son, saw as well, and stepped in front of her. He roared a challenge at her, which she disregarded, simply stepping to the side and driving her blade into his gut before he had a chance to defend himself. She yanked her sword out viciously, and he fell face-first into the water, unmoving.

Merlin let out a howl when he saw his father fall. He shot a bolt of his own energy at her, but she deflected it to the side easily, and came forward the last few steps to slash at him. He clumsily parried her first blow, but she sliced his shoulder with her second, and when he dropped his sword and staggered backwards, clutching the bleeding wound, he tripped over a body and fell hard, the wind knocked out of him.

Morgana laughed aloud at that, bringing her hand up and speaking a few words. Gold started pouring out of Merlin, tendrils of it twisting through the air towards Morgana, and he screamed.

The sound made Arthur, who had been distracted by other attacking druids, turn. He took in the scene with a glance, recognizing the danger that Merlin was in. Without hesitation, he ran at Morgana and swung his sword at her seemingly-unprotected midriff. To his shock, his blade rebounded as though it had hit a rock, but it was enough to make her lose her focus. She faltered, and Merlin’s magic stopped flowing toward her.

Pressing the advantage of her distraction, Arthur swung again. This time, she turned to block him, distracted from Merlin, lying gasping on the ground meters away. Arthur attacked her viciously, wildly, heeding the advice Merlin had given him and not giving her time to think to do magic. When she landed a brutal kick at his tender knee and he fell, he just snarled at her and forced himself up again. He thought of his father’s brutal murder and Merlin’s anguish at Mordred’s death and his own mistreatment at her hands, and used the fire that blazed in him to carry him forward for one last charge.

Arthur rushed at her, feinting with his sword, but then lowered it at the last minute and caught her with his shoulder. She flipped over, landing on her back in the water. He was on her in an instant, leaning on her legs to keep them from kicking, and pressing her face down under the surface. Her arms flailed wildly, smacking him in the head, trying to choke him when she got a lucky hold on his neck, but he continued to hold her beneath the water. Gradually, her struggles weakened, until finally she went limp. 

Arthur backed off of her, gasping, and picked up Excalibur again from where it was lying next to him. A sense, honed by long hours on the training field, made him turn back a second later, in time to bat aside with Excalibur the knife that she had stealthily thrown at him. She sat up, coughing as water flooded from her lungs.

He didn’t think, just reversed the swing, burying his blade deep within Morgana’s abdomen. She looked up at him, shocked, and whispered something he couldn’t understand. He made no attempt to respond. Her eyes fluttered closed a moment later, and she slumped forwards. When he yanked the blade out, she put up no resistance. He watched her for a long moment to make sure that she was truly dead this time.

Finally satisfied that she would not be getting up again, Arthur rounded on the closest druid. Seeing the look of animalistic rage on his face and the body of her leader behind him, she wisely chose to flee rather than to fight him. The others quickly followed suit, melting back into the forest, leaving only the few surviving knights on the battlefield, all of them breathing heavily, and most clutching some injury. Arthur did a quick scan of them, not seeing the one face he sought.

Merlin was still lying in the river. Arthur rushed over to him the instant he spotted him, cradling Merlin in his arms and calling his name. For a long moment, nothing happened. Arthur frantically shook him and, when that had no effect, clutched him tighter and swept his fingers through Merlin’s hair, smoothing down the wet recalcitrant locks. At last, his eternal gratitude, Merlin’s eyes flickered open. “Di’ w’ win?” he mumbled tiredly.

“Yes,” Arthur replied, half-laughing, half-sobbing into Merlin’s hair with relief. “We did.”

******************

They laid out the bodies of everyone who had died, knights and druids alike, with the help of the surviving soldiers. Arthur stepped forward when they were done, and raised Excalibur in a salute.

“Let us remember the warriors who fought and died here this day,” he said, thinking about the old knights who had abandoned Camelot long ago but came back to fulfill their duty when they were truly needed, and about the young warriors who had just proved their worth to their tribe. About kind-hearted Finna. About Merlin, the defiant sorcerer who had devoted himself to Arthur, who had found and then lost his father as a result of the quest that Arthur had volunteered him for. 

“Knights and sorcerers,” he added, looking at his friend. “My people and yours.” He nodded to Merlin, who briefly concentrated on the wooden pyre they had built especially for Balinor. It burst into flames.

“You have all done your duties as the soldiers of your lands. Now, may you rest. May peace and honor follow you. May you know no more strife.”

Merlin reached into his tunic and pulled out his amulet. He rubbed a thumb over it tenderly, gazing at it one last time, then carefully reached into the flames to lay it on his father’s chest. After, he retreated to Arthur’s side, his eyes bright with unshed tears. They both stood in silence until the flames died down.

******************

Arthur rode back through Camelot’s gates proudly with his back straight and his head held high. Merlin, on his own horse, stayed only a pace or two behind him in the narrow streets of the lower town. None of the surviving old knights had opted to return to Camelot, claiming that they were happy with their lives among the druids, and Arthur had not pushed them, acknowledging that they had fulfilled their debt.

Their passage through the city was the complete opposite of when they had departed. Citizens stopped what they were doing, coming out of their shops and homes to cheer as their king rode by, Excalibur displayed for all to see in his raised fist.

They dismounted in the castle’s courtyard, and made their way side by side to the council chambers. Disregarding the guards’ protests that the council was in the middle of an important discussion and couldn’t be disturbed, Arthur threw open the heavy wooden doors and strode inside, all traces of his limp carefully hidden. Merlin remained by the entrance, his face completely blank.

The Council had gone silent around their table as soon as the doors had opened, but, as Arthur approached, the room erupted with babble, everyone trying to talk above the rest, hurling questions and accusations around. Arthur was unsurprised to see Lord Richard and Lady Catrina, though they should have left weeks ago, on their feet and bright red, shouting louder than nearly everyone else.

Arthur slammed Excalibur down, burying it deep in the council table with a thud. “SILENCE!” he thundered, rendering the entire room quiet and wide-eyed.

“I trust this is proof enough for everyone that I am fit to lead this kingdom?” he asked in a tone that brooked no disagreement.

“My dear boy!” Lady Catrina exclaimed, full of false exuberance. “Let me be the first to congratulate you on your accomplishments. However did you do it?”

“And with only a slave to help you?” her husband added, glaring nastily at Merlin.

“Merlin is not a slave!” Arthur exclaimed. He glanced back at Merlin to see the pleased smile spreading itself involuntarily across his friend’s face. “And he knows more about honour and freedom than you ever will. I have found his aid and wisdom to be invaluable to me on our journey; therefore, I am promoting him to be my Chief Advisor.”

Merlin’s mouth dropped open. “Arthur,” he said, then stopped, unable to continue.

Arthur smiled fondly at him before turning back to the council. “I will be making a lot of changes to our laws in the coming days, starting with the legalization of magic and the outlawing of slavery,” he announced, his heart soaring at the choked sound that Merlin made. 

“Arthur, I know a lot must have happened to you while you were gone, but surely…” Geoffrey began, but Arthur would not let him finish.

“These are matters that I will not compromise on,” he said firmly. “So I suggest you all take some time to think about your loyalties, and where the support of the people will lie, now that Excalibur is once again in the hands of a Pendragon.”

With that, Arthur spun on his heel and marched out of the room. He put an arm around Merlin when he reached him, and the two walked down the corridors of Camelot together. “Thank you,” Merlin whispered, holding tightly to Arthur and burying his face in Arthur’s shoulder. “I knew the prophecies were right. You will usher in a new age in Albion.”

“I owe you more than this for what you suffered at the hands of Camelot,” Arthur replied, tactfully ignoring Merlin’s comments about destiny. “Is there anything else you want? Tell me.”

“A bath,” Merlin said immediately. “I really want a bath right now. You should have one too.”

“Ooh, I don’t know. That might be a bit too much. Can you think of something easier for me to get you?”

Merlin laughed and shoved him, but kept hold of one arm so that Arthur couldn’t go far. They continued down the corridor, bantering and laughing, even as they turned a corner and disappeared out of sight.


End file.
